Agents Under Fire (20 page)

Those quietly spoken words of support surprised her. They were more than what she’d gotten from her parents.

He pushed to his feet and came to stand by the bars. He seemed to have come to some kind of a decision, because he drew a slow breath and said, “My name is Troy Hill. I work for the FBI. I’m on an undercover op here.”

Again, not the slightest nervous gesture betrayed that he might be lying, none of the usual giveaways she’d learned to look for. She’d guarded prisoners before, at the desert base where she’d served. She wasn’t an expert, but she wasn’t a novice, either. “If you were undercover, you couldn’t tell me any of this.”

“
I’m out of choices,” he said reasonably. “Either you’re involved in the Congressman’s dark dealings or you’re an honest person in the middle of this mess. You’re new to the team. Maybe you haven’t been corrupted yet. Maybe you’ll help me. It’s my best bet.”

Sounded logical. From his point of view, anyway.

“
If you’re FBI, then you’re in luck. Your buddies are coming for you. The feds are on their way.”

Instead of looking relieved, he swore, his body tensing. “Listen, no way any law enforcement was called in. Whoever is coming for me, if they take me, I’m as good as dead. Wharton can’t afford to let me live.” He pinned that piercing gaze on her. “My life is in your hands, Claire.”

She didn’t like that he used her name. Must have overheard Jason saying it. She rolled her eyes at him, keeping her tone dry as she said, “Nobody likes a drama queen.”

His lips twitched. “You still have your sense of humor. That’s something.” He moved closer to the bars. “You need to get these cuffs off me.”

“
You need to stop talking.”
Did she look stupid?

He watched her for a long minute, shook his head, then went back to sit on the cement floor in the corner at last, regret and resolution mixing in his gaze.

She pulled out her Smartphone and brought up the mystery novel she’d been reading, watching the prisoner from the corner of her eye. He sat still, his head resting against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

He’d given up. Good.

No way was she going to mess up this job.

She read the book, even if she did find the man behind the bars distracting. When his words came back to echo in her head, she forced her attention to the story. She read a lot these days, had a lot of sleepless hours to fill in the night.

She caught movement from the corner of her eye. She glanced over, but he seemed to have fallen asleep, so she went back to the book.

But it happened again. She watched him more closely. Maybe he just moved in his sleep, adjusting his bruised body on the hard floor. God, to be able to sleep like that, oblivious to the world… She would have given anything for that kind of reprieve.

Time passed, the multiple plot lines in the book grew more complicated. Half her shift was over when the prisoner woke up and pushed to his feet.

“
Could I have another drink?” He dragged himself to the bars. “Please?”

He looked worn out. More so than before. Maybe too much. He’d just taken a nap.

She watched him closely. Was he trying to get her to let her guard down?

Her instincts prickled, although she couldn’t put her finger on anything specific. She set the phone down and picked up the bottle, alert and watchful. The basement’s door banged open before she twisted off the cap.

She turned toward Nick, the head of the Congressman’s security team. “Is everything okay?”

“
Finished early with checking the security systems. I figured I might as well take over down here.”

“
I still have an hour left.”

“
You got called in off shift. You deserve a break.”

She nodded, then turned back to the prisoner with the water.

Nick held his hand out. “I can do that.”

She handed him the bottle.

“
See you in the morning. You have gate duty at oh-six-hundred.”

She glanced back at Troy—if that really was his name.

Frustration and anger flashed across his face, a determined look coming into his eyes. Then, in a split second, he turned into a dejected prisoner once again.

She blinked. She was probably imagining things. Or it had been a trick of the light. The single light bulb hanging from a wire didn’t exactly provide perfect lighting.

Still, unease ran up her spine. Something felt off but, again, she couldn’t put her finger on what it was exactly.

* * *

Troy gritted his teeth as he watched the door close behind her. He’d spent too much time chatting her up, trying to get her to drop her guard, to help him.

She’d offered him that water, and suddenly he’d balked at taking her out.
Idiot.
Her mix of strength and vulnerability had gotten to him. Somehow he’d convinced himself that she wasn’t like the others. And he’d decided to see if he could get past her without resorting to violent measures.

He’d
hesitated
. Again. Hadn’t he learned anything?

Then by the time he’d sawed through the plastic cuff on the edge of a cement block behind his back, by the time he’d called her to the bars again, it had been too late. He’d counted on having her for another hour.

The guard who’d taken over would be a hell of a lot more difficult to tackle. He had forty pounds on Troy, two guns and some serious commando training from the looks of him.

“
I’m thirsty,” he repeated his plea. He needed to get the bastard within reach, close enough to the bars so he could grab him.

But the guard just shot him a look of indifference, chucking the bottle into the corner and moving to the stool to sit. “Tough shit.”

~~~***~~~

Chapter Two

Claire stepped out into the night, scanned the grounds and patted the two Rottweilers that ran up to her.

“
Off you go. Back to work.” She waved them along after a few minutes, and they galloped off to do their duty.

She breathed in cool night air as she glanced at her watch. The intruder had messed up everyone’s schedule and the entire security team had been called in. They’d spent the evening looking for an accomplice, looking for a bomb the man might have placed. They hadn’t found anything.

Since she couldn’t afford to rent a place anywhere near the ritzy quarter the Congressman lived in, she had a one-bedroom apartment an hour’s drive from here. Not worth the drive tonight. She only had five hours left before her shift.

She strode to the ancient Chevy she drove, and picked up her duffle bag from the back seat. The security team had a room on top of the gatehouse for times like this. She headed that way.

She nodded at Jason who was now manning the gate and would be there until she took her shift. “I’ll be down in a couple of hours. Try not to fall asleep.”

He puffed out his chest. “Nothing gets through me, babe.”

She shook her head at the macho display then plodded up the stairs. And thought of Troy Hill.

He’d been convincing. She almost believed him—except, she knew better. The man would have said anything to break free. He’d been scamming her, without a doubt, yet his graphite eyes and his scarred and bloodied face stayed with her for some reason.

She reached the small, utilitarian room and locked the door, dropped her bag, then stripped out of her clothes. She showered in the small stall in the bathroom, trying to figure out the man in the basement. Nick had said he was a would-be assassin.

But then why had he gone to the empty conference room instead of the Congressman’s personal quarters?

She dried herself off and lay down on the bed in nothing but a clean undershirt and her underwear. The watch on her wrist showed well after one a.m. She closed her eyes and willed sleep to come.

When she heard a car pull up to the gate twenty minutes later, she got up and stepped to the front window. A dark, unmarked van stood outside—two burly men in the front. That must be the FBI arriving finally.

The driver didn’t show ID at the gate—unusual and against all the rules. Jason simply waved them through.

No markings or any kind of insignia showed on the back doors of the vehicle that would have identified it as belonging to the Bureau. It didn’t even have government license plates. A flat, plastic storage unit lay on top, the locks busted, the unit tied together with elastic luggage bands. Didn’t look very professional.

The van pulled up next to the main building. The men got out, wearing camouflage pants and dark T-shirts. The mansion’s side door opened for them before they had a chance to knock.

Ten minutes passed before they came back out, dragging Troy between them. Even from this distance, she could tell he’d gotten a pretty good beating since she’d last seen him. Maybe he’d resisted.

The men had his feet bound, too, so they had to lift him to toss him into the back of the van. He struggled. Fell. One of them kicked him in the head, the other in the ribs—viscously and repeatedly, even after he stopped struggling.

That didn’t look like standard FBI procedure.

Tension vibrated through her. Images flashed through her mind and stole the breath from her lungs.
Rough hands grabbing her. Ropes digging into her flesh. Pain.
She shook her head and shut the memories away as the men tossed their prisoner into the back and locked the van.

She stepped toward her bed. She should go back to trying to sleep. But she couldn’t shake the image of Troy Hill out of her head, bloodied and beaten. She’d looked like that, had been carried off like that by the enemy. If some of the guys in her unit hadn’t gone after her, she’d be dead.

Hell, she couldn’t sleep anyway. She dragged on her clothes and checked her weapon, then hesitated again at the back window. She wanted this job. She needed this job. If she didn’t have this job, she didn’t have anything.

But something about Troy Hill didn’t sit right with her. What harm would it do to do a little checking? Nobody would have to know.

She pushed up the window quietly and climbed out onto the roof. She lunged and jumped to the top of the foot-wide stone wall that surrounded the property, crouching so the hemlock would cover her from sight of the guardhouse and the grounds. When the van rolled through the gate, she glanced at the guardhouse—Jason hadn’t come out—then straightened and softly stepped over to the top of the vehicle. She timed it so the van was already being jostled by the speed bump that served as an extra security measure.

She squatted immediately and opened the storage unit, hanging on to it for support, found nothing inside but a couple of dusty tools. Once she folded her body into the space, she pulled the top down and hung onto the edge, leaving a small gap so she could see where they were going. The van picked up speed as it reached the end of the street.

She would stay with them until they took the turn for Langtry. Then she’d slip away at a red light unseen. She wanted to make sure that the FBI really did have the man, and he’d been just messing with her head when he’d made all those claims.

But the van didn’t head toward the FBI headquarters. It headed toward the Potomac River and stopped at the shipyard. The motor went silent. They cut the headlights, but a light pole ahead provided enough illumination for her to see the two men shove Troy toward a mid-sized fishing boat that bobbed on the water. They dragged him on board—not without a scuffle—and got the motor going.

He fought at every chance, but with his hands and feet tied, he didn’t get far. Knocking him off balance was too easy. And once he went down, the two men kicked the living daylights out of him again.

Minutes ticked by before he stopped moving.

They left him, but didn’t turn on any lights on the boat as they prepared to cast off.

The longer she watched, the more the scene looked like something out of an old-fashioned mob movie, thugs taking their target out to sea to sleep with the fishes.

She slipped to the ground on the opposite side of the van so she wouldn’t be seen, kept low as she snuck closer to the boat. Then she ducked behind a metal barrel when she reached the water’s edge.

One man took the helm, while the other shoved Troy below deck. When the guy came back up, he untied the boat. Then they were underway, and he joined his buddy by the steering wheel. Since they hadn’t turned on the navigation lights, both were probably needed to maneuver the boat.

She knew nothing about boats. Her family was Montana royalty and into cattle and horses. She’d spent the last couple of years of her life overseas, again among mountains.

She lunged forward on a spur-of-the-moment decision, ran along then jumped. If she slipped, the propellers would cut her into pieces. But her military training took over and pushed her to do what she had to do to achieve her objective.

Which was what?