He eyed his briefcase. Files and his laptop pushed at the leather to the point of breaking the zipper. He’d fallen behind in the last two days with basic paperwork, and even with everything else distracting him, it was tapping at the back of his mind like a clock alarm, dinging over and over. He didn’t get sick days or vacation. Letting anything slide, even for twenty-four hours, could put the nation at risk. Bracing himself for the return trip to his study, he took another swig of beer and picked up the briefcase.
His desk sat in its temporary spot near the plasma flat screen over the fireplace and was covered with plastic. As Michael cleaned it off, he ignored the way his pulse jumped. Ignored the voices in his head and the echo of gunshots.
It’s been six months
. He chanted the words
six months
under his breath like a mantra. A logical mantra. Six months should have been more than enough time to get his head back on straight.
Once settled in his chair, he opened the briefcase, sorted the files into straight stacks and booted up his laptop. While it whirred and took him through several password codes and identification programs, his attention continued to stray to the couch across the room and the rise and fall of Brigit’s upper body.
He envied her total surrender to sleep, yearning for a similar disconnect. When was the last time he’d slept like that? He couldn’t remember, but it seemed like Julia had still been beside him.
Mesmerized by Brigit’s body, he continued to watch, his own breathing slowing to match hers.
Darkness fell. When he could no longer make out her form on the couch, he forced himself to move and turn on his desk lamp. Then he picked up the receiver of his landline phone and dialed a number he never thought he’d use.
“Ace’s Mortuary,” a voice on the other end said. “My two-for-one special on body bags is good all month.”
“Ace, this is Michael Stone.”
The sound of rustling paper and something being knocked over came through the line. “Shit,” Ace said under his breath. In his mind, Michael could see the mortician fumbling to straighten what he’d knocked over. “Big Mike, how’s it going, bro?”
God, he hated being called Big Mike. Hated having to go to Flynn’s local source to get what he needed for Brigit. “I need antibiotics. Strong ones. And I need you to bring them to my house, ASAP.”
“Uh-huh.” The mortician sounded dumbfounded. “I run with the dead, you know. No call for antibiotics.”
“But you have connections, and you owe me. Consider this a collection notice.”
There was a long, awkward pause. A sigh of concession. “I got you, man. How many pills you need?”
“Two week supply. Leave them at the gate.”
“You doping one of your spies or yourself?”
Michael glanced at Brigit. “TMI, Ace. You don’t need to know.”
“Uh-huh. Okay then. Give me a couple hours.”
“One.”
Ace’s incredulousness came through even though he held back on his real thoughts. “Sure, one hour. Working miracles, that’s me.”
Michael hung up, stared some more at Brigit still curled in a fetal position. She looked so vulnerable, his need to protect kicked like a mule under his ribs.
The impulse was natural for him when it came to his family and his country, but it surprised him in regard to her. She’d done nothing to gain his trust, hadn’t even told him what she’d promised. The impulse was so strong, though, he couldn’t ignore it.
In his briefcase, he pulled out the memory stick Julia had given him. He plugged it into a USB port on his laptop and opened the single video file. As he watched Brigit leverage a gun at the woman standing next to the car, a tingling went down his spine. He leaned toward the screen.
When the woman moved in and hugged Brigit, he froze the scene. Zoomed in to get a better look at the woman’s face under her knit cap. Same round eyes as Brigit, same straight nose.
Julia’s words jogged through his brain.
The woman in the knit cap is apparently her sister. Went by the name Tory. They discussed a man named Peter, and Tory mentioned she was involved with him and an international war…
Brigit Kent was protecting her sister.
Her sister who looked almost like her twin. So much so, a six-year-old under duress might confuse them.
His hunch Brigit was innocent of the kidnapping confirmed, Michael sat back and heaved a sigh of relief. It was wrong to protect her sister, who was obviously involved with terrorists, but thinking about his own family, he considered what he would do if Ruthie or Martha had gone down that path. His first impulse was always to protect the ones he loved.
Leaving his desk, he dug out an afghan blanket from an antique trunk near the fireplace and laid it over Brigit. She stirred, latching on to the blanket and pulling it up to her chin. Her eyes fluttered opened. For once they were unguarded and soft. Trusting.
Sexy.
A small smile slipped over her mouth as she looked up at him and with a sigh, she closed her eyes. He watched her slip back into the oblivion of sleep, mesmerized again by the rise and fall cadence of her breathing.
In the kitchen, he snagged another Sam from the fridge and tuned in to the ping-ponging of his pulse. This round’s erratic jumping was due to the woman on his couch. He tried to bridle it and then thought,
ah, hell
, and gave in, riding it. Since Julia had left him, he’d put all feeling, except the anger and hatred directed at Raissi, on pause. When other emotions popped up, he’d dusted them like a prize fighter going after an opponent, leaving nothing but numbness in their place. For the first time in a long while, numbness or anger didn’t appeal to him.
Like a photograph, an image of Brigit’s trusting eyes flashed in his mind, those big baby dolls looking at him like he was the best thing since dark chocolate.
Returning to the den, he settled himself behind his desk. His gaze sought her out even though he tried to focus on the work waiting for him. Pongo lay on the floor beside her, stretched out and sleeping as hard as she was. Dumb dog, he was such a sucker for pretty women.
As the grandfather clock chimed seven o’clock, the phantoms in the room faded into the walls and the carpet. Brigit’s breathing deepened. Pongo snored. A blanket of calm settled over Michael.
He pulled the first file off the stack and began to read about Peter Donovan.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Brigit woke to the sound of soft chiming. Years peeled away and she was suddenly six again, wondering why her mum had let her oversleep. The church bells were ringing. They’d be late for mass.
The chiming continued,
bong…bong…bong
, and Brigit struggled to open her eyes. The lids were heavy, refusing to cooperate. She called for her mother, nothing coming out of her throat but a raw sound. A dull ache rolled through her body and alarm ricocheted under her skin. She swallowed and tried again. “Mum?”
“You’re all right, Brigit,” a deep male voice said beside her. She sensed he was kneeling over her. Who was he? Not her father. Peter? Frantic, she squirmed and fought to open her eyes. Like in nightmares, the harder she tried, the heavier her lids became.
The voice murmured again, shushing her. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe.”
Even though his voice was soft and kind, fear spiked in her chest. Peter wanted to hurt her. “No,” she whimpered, twisting her body away from the man.
A heavy hand grasped her right arm. “Brigit, stop it. You’re going to wreck your stitches.”
Stitches? Suddenly, everything fell into place. Her mother was dead. This wasn’t Belfast. There was no church to attend. No God or Blessed Mother to worship.
There was only her life, full of longing and charged with regret.
Her eyes flew open and she found herself staring up into Michael Stone’s anxious face.
“Michael,” she gasped, relief drenching her like a cascade of water. His hand was exceptionally strong and yet tender on her uninjured arm where he held her. “It’s…”
Not Peter.
“…you.”
“Disappointed?” He helped her sit up. A sweatshirt and nylon running pants had replaced the dress shirt and slacks. His feet were bare. “You were maybe expecting the president?”
She chuckled at the joke and then realized he wasn’t making a joke. “What?”
He shrugged it off, sat on the coffee table. His knees touched hers. “How do you feel?”
Groggy, but no longer exhausted. A little achy. A lot weirded out that once again he’d been watching her sleep. She drew her left arm closer to her body, wincing as her wound bit deep into her muscle. How could a flesh wound cause so much pain? “Fine. I’m fine.”
“Sure you are.” He reached for a piece of white cardboard folded in half like a miniature book on the table next to him. After flipping it open, he pushed out a fat pill from a blister and handed it to her.
“More drugs?” she asked. “What does this one do? Make me confess all my sins?”
He handed her a glass of water. “Not unless you have one mean reaction to Zithromax.”
He was doing a fine mother-hen impression. Brigit downed the pill while a warm sensation crept into her chest. No one had taken care of her since her dad had thrown her out of his house when she was seventeen, and his parental care had never been loving. A lump rose in her throat and she choked it back down. “Have they found Peter yet?”
“Not yet.”
Disappointment sank into her bones. The odds of catching him grew slimmer with each passing hour. At least Ella was safe. “What time is it?”
“Midnight. You can have another pain pill if you need it.”
Another pain pill and a few more hours of sleep sounded like heaven. A heaven she couldn’t really afford. “Nah, but I’d kill for a hot shower.”
Michael eyed her, speculating, she assumed, if she was sincere about the killing part. Had he found out about her mother? The truth about what had happened that night?
It was an accident. I lost my balance and knocked the candle over.
The memory of that night bloomed in her mind. The way the candle’s flame jumped to the spilled whiskey and ate the newspapers. The smoke and fire swiftly engulfing the tiny kitchen as her mother shoved Brigit and Tory past Peter toward the door. The way Tory tripped on the stairs, crying, and Brigit had to right her and keep pulling her away. Away from the fire. Away from Peter…
Michael took the glass from her suddenly shaking hand. “You feel okay? You’re white as a sheet.”
Brigit swallowed and nodded even though she wasn’t.
He returned the glass to the table next to the rabbit’s foot. “How about a bath instead of a shower. I’d have to waterproof your bandage for a shower.”
“Bath it is, then,” she said, standing, her voice low and rough.
He stopped her with a raised hand. Pointed to the couch as if commanding her to sit. “After you answer some questions.”
Questions. There were always questions.
While the deal had slipped quietly away, and she’d been able to forget the mess she was in for a little while, it was almost a relief he was finally going to get down to business.
Just like Pongo, she responded to Michael’s command, lowering herself to the couch. As she leaned her back against the soft fabric, every cell in her body screamed for her to run, to keep the secrets buried in her limbs and organs, like a good girl.
Keep your mouth shut
, that was always the rule. With her father, with her sister, with SIS. Steeling herself against the alarm rippling under her skin again, she looked him straight in the eye. “Ask away.”
While his face was set in deputy-director mode, his eyes were soft. “Who do you work for?”
“I’m an independent consultant. You know that.”
He stared at her, saying nothing. Waiting. He was very good at waiting. She relented, childish. “I’m currently consulting with DHS on behalf of the president.”
“What’s the president got you doing?”
Her father’s face flashed in front of her eyes. She cleared her throat. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“The only thing he cares about at the moment is getting reelected, so I assume you’re helping him with that in some way.”
Denying would be futile. He would read the lie in her face no matter how hard she tried to cover it. She remained silent.
Michael took her silence for assent. Lifting her BlackBerry from the coffee table, he dangled it in midair. “DHS doesn’t use terms like ‘lie back and think of England’. That’s code. Operative language. You don’t work for me, so who burned you?”
Surprise overrode caution. “You broke into my email?”
He shrugged as if it were a forgone conclusion he would do such a thing. “MI6? G2? You’ve been a consultant for both the British and the Irish.”
The need to cover that section of her resume was gone, but the training beaten into her about it still functioned. “Does it matter? I’m on my own now. I’ve got nobody and nothing.”
“You’ve still got the president.”
Big plus there. Michael was right though. Consulting for DHS—a.k.a. the president—was more than nothing. She could still work something out.
He set her phone down, rested his elbows on his knees and leaned toward her, intertwining his fingers. “He called earlier to check on you. Warned me not to prod you too much.”
Like in the back of the Navigator, a sudden flush of warmth spread in her veins. His big body was entirely too close. Too male. Too in control. She sputtered the first thing that sprang to mind. “He’s scared of you.”
A thoughtful smile thinned Michael’s lips, as if she’d confirmed something he already knew. “Who are you protecting, Brigit? Your sister or the president of the United States?”
Who
wasn’t
she protecting? “So you read my personnel file as well?” Her voice conveyed the incredulousness she was fighting.
“Your DHS personnel file has nothing on your family, except the fact your father was part of a political envoy Jeffries sent to Bolivia last year. He was charged with conspiring to cause a public nuisance and ended up in one of the toughest jails down there. Negotiations have failed.”
Her stomach did a flip at the mention of her father being held and probably tortured for fun, but she couldn’t dwell on him right now. “Then how did you know about my…” Sudden realization hit. “Julia told you about my intercepting Tory the other night.”
“She and Zara videoed the whole thing.”
“Shit.” Brigit dropped her head back against the couch and dragged a hand through her smelly hair. A line of Oscar Wilde’s poetry ran through her head,
we are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.
She’d certainly done a good job of building her own hell.
Michael’s gaze was confident. He had her where he wanted her. The food, the medicine, the comfort he’d provided was just foreplay. Now he was ready to screw her.
Lie back and think of England
…
Family. Brigit lifted her head from the couch. He was very family-oriented. Surely he could relate to her situation. “You know how it is with your siblings. You don’t always understand them but you try to love them anyway.”
A spark of compassion lit his eyes. “And help them in any way you can.”
Exactly
. “Tory and I lost our mother when we were very young. She’s always blamed me for what happened and made a lot of bad choices based on that.”
“Like joining Donovan’s terrorist group?”
“Yes.”
“So you studied Donovan and tracked his group, but never tried to shut him down because Tory might get caught as well.”
Brigit’s spine stiffened. “I love my sister, but I would never jeopardize innocent people to save her. Peter is just as intelligent and clever as you and I. He’s a damn good terrorist, and Tory is guilty by association, but she’s never done the dirty work herself.”
“But you could have arrested her the other night and you didn’t.”
Again, his logic was spot on. A lump rose in her throat and tears pushed against her eyelids. “I hadn’t seen her in so long, and I just…I wanted to talk to her. To try and talk sense into her. For our mother’s sake if nothing else.”
She swallowed hard and blinked back the tears. Michael unlocked his fingers and patted the side of her knee. “She may be a terrorist, but she’s still your sister.”
A shock of electricity ran up her leg and she struggled to ignore it. “Doesn’t matter. I failed to do what was right. I had an inkling Peter was involved in the kidnapping. If I’d arrested her, I might have been able to break the case open sooner and saved Ella from the trauma of the fire.” She met his eyes. “I’m truly, truly sorry.”
“Me too,” he said. “Because now I have to hunt down Tory as well as Donovan.”
Brigit’s throat pinched off air. She stuttered. “Hunt…hunt them down?”
“They messed with my family. I can’t let either of them go.”
“But the FBI—”
“The FBI and their counterparts are doing everything they can to find and capture Donovan, but the odds are they’ll fail. I won’t.” His face, his voice, were hard and unrelenting. Batman was back. “You know why?”
Brigit shook her head.
“Because you’re going to help me.”
Or else
. The unsaid words hovered in the space between them. “If I refuse?”
“I’ll deposit your butt back at the D.C. Police Department and let Detective Hayden bring charges against you.”
“Even though you know I’m innocent.”
“Yes.”
He, Julia and Zara were the only ones who knew about Tory, and the two agents would never take Brigit’s side over Michael’s. Even if Brigit offered Tory up on a silver platter to Detective Hayden, he wouldn’t believe her and she could offer no proof.
But could she betray her own sister? “I don’t like being blackmailed.”
“Most people don’t.” He tapped his index finger against her knee. “If you help me, you’ll get first crack at setting things straight with your sister and that’s a helluva lot more than you’ll get if the FBI finds her. I want justice, but I’ll work on leniency for her when it’s all said and done.” He tapped her knee again. “If you cooperate.”
Her stomach churned. “Peter Donovan is the one you want. Tory is just a confused young woman. She needs a psychiatrist, not a jail cell.”
“She took part in a kidnapping. Confused or not, she’s a criminal. You can’t save her from prosecution. Nor should you.”
Making a deal with a man like Michael Stone was always risky, and yet she had no choice. The only way to protect Tory, get her some help, was to aid him in bringing her in.
We are each our own devil
. Brigit locked her attention on Michael’s large, strong hands and considered her future. She couldn’t stop Peter, save Tory and rescue her father without help. A lot of help. And not the kind of carrot-dangling-in-your-face help the president kept offering. SIS and their resources were no longer at her fingertips. Her job was gone, her apartment left in smoldering ruins, and she was wanted in connection with Ella’s kidnapping. No more Miss Nice Guy. It was time to pull up her big girl knickers and deal.
Lucky for her, blackmail worked both ways. “I’ll help you find Peter,” she said, leaning forward so her face was only inches from his. “But in the end, if we find Tory too, you’ll pull the strings necessary to get her charges reduced
and
provide counseling. Deal?”
A hint of a smile danced on his lips. He tilted his head a fraction as if he were amused by her challenge. “You’re not in a position to bargain, Dr. Kent.”
She mirrored his smile and his head tilt. “Wanna bet?”
His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed a fraction as he mulled over her challenge. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“There’s something you should know about your sister and the president.”
His body tensed. It was there and gone in a flash. Fear? “Spill it.”
“No.” She tapped his knee with her finger, refusing mercy and enjoying the way he was squirming inside even if he kept a tight lid on it. “That card is the only trump I have. I want your word you’ll do whatever you can to help Tory when we find her, and I also want your word you’ll help rescue my father from Bolivia. If you do all that, I’ll give you the information and the proof to back it up about your sister. And then I’ll help you bury it.”
Doubt danced in his expression as he considered whether her claim was bogus, the convenient story of a desperate woman. It was easy enough to lay his doubts to rest. “Why do you think Jeffries warned you not to prod me?”
A minute of strained silence passed as he ground his teeth. Finally, he let go of a controlled sigh, and his breath was warm on her face. “How do we find Peter Donovan?”