Emotionally Compromised (Emotionally Compromised Series) (21 page)

Interesting. Forced access? But why? She has got to be connected.

As I'm trying to place the woman, the familiar image of Marcus Gibbs enters the screen. He keeps rubbing his face, maybe trying to wake up, as he puts his valid key card in and slips inside. Curious, I peer at the time in the corner of the video. It was nearly eight in the morning when this video was captured.

"Hmm
."

"Babe, what is it?"

"Wait." I stick my finger up to halt his words. He sits frozen to the spot, watching me.

I decide to do what the e-mail directed, and fast-forward to 7:38. Sure enough, Marcus and the mystery women
exit together. This time the woman isn't wearing sunglasses. I freeze the image.

Marcus looks strained and tired even in the blurry screen cap, and the women looks to be smiling. I can't get a good feeling for her face, especially her eyes, with the angle of the camera. But I know her, I know I do
, but from where?

"Jeremy, do you recognize her?" I can't help my poignant tone. I tug on his arm
, and then point at my screen.

He leans over, trying to get the detail that isn't there. "These are my security cameras?"
he mutters.

"Yes."

"I didn't realize you had access to them."

I roll my eyes. "That's beside the point right now. What you should be concerned with is your company's investment in such a low-quality system." I gesture at the grainy, hard-to-make-out image.

"Watch it." His tone is stern, but he shoots me a small smile as he continues to try to identify the woman. "I have no idea who that is," he says. "The woman doesn't look familiar, but Marcus looks nervous as hell."

"Well, she got past your security, and managed to break into a lab without a peep."

His brows shoot up in surprise. "I have people at the front desk checking IDs, and most elevators require access codes to get to these floors. Hell, most doors need IDs to get in. What more could I do?"

"Maybe when this is all said and done you can contract our services to overhaul your security?" I can't help batting my eyelashes haughtily at him.

He nips at my lip with his teeth. "Maybe. So many skills, Miss Turner."

"Mr. Hunt, you have no idea. I'll have you know that before I became a field agent
, I was pretty good at hacking into advanced security systems."

"A woman of many talents," he says.

"You'd be good to remember it," I quip.

"Why would I need to remember it when you remind me so often?" He tilts his head toward me with an arrogant, but adorable air.

I squint and feign anger, but he leans in to kiss me. I can't help growling. When he pulls away, he looks smug, and as if to turn the tables, Jeremy's phone rings.

He kisses me once more. "Gotta get that, babe."

He sets his laptop down, and hops out of the chair to take the call. "Jeremy Hunt speaking."

I roll my eyes when I hear his professional demeanor. Who is he kidding? He is a marshmallow.

Another
ping
in my inbox distracts me. It's another one from Derek.

Turner,

Did that woman look familiar to you? The image from the cameras isn't good enough to put it into our fac
ial recognition software. Currently, I am trying to gain access to Gibbs's building's security cameras. I'd like to know how often he makes it home, and with whom.

Also what's our plan for Saturday?
Who's getting wired and when?

I stare at the screen for a moment, and debate how I want Saturday to go. I peer over my computer to see Jeremy still on the phone. He's mumbling about meetings and some sort of budget bottom line. It's obvious that work is his element. Even this far away I can see the intensity reflected in his crystal eyes. He's commanding and confident, and he looks glorious standing there running his hand through his blond hair while pacing. His shirt ripples over his toned Viking physique. Who would even want to attempt to cross him? He catches me staring and shoots me a smile even though he seems to be scolding someone on the phone. I smile back, but shake my head at the fact he can easily distract me. I take a deep breath and write an e-mail to Derek.

I keep staring at my screen trying to identify her. Did you run the image by Interpol? See if they can identify her. Maybe the face will look familiar.

You're right; I know that face, but can't figure out why. She looks like she could be Middle Eastern
maybe. These are just guesses. I asked Jeremy to see if he could identify her, and he has no idea who she is either. Do you think she is linked to Luc Olivier? Have we figured out what terrorist group is looking to do the buying? I think we should keep an eye on Marcus's bank account. Besides the $5,000 transfer, maybe they will start depositing funds as collateral. All just guesses.

I don't like this guessing game
, Agent Matthews!

As for Saturday, let's meet at Jeremy Hunt's apartment at 1900
, and get both Jeremy and me earpieces linked to a surveillance team that we can station outside of the event. I will put that tracker on Marcus's phone then as well. I want to collect as much intel as possible.

I press send and close the laptop. This isn't making sense yet, and these puzzle pieces are coming in fast.

The five-thousand
-dollar transfer, Marcus's drug problem, Luc Olivier, the mystery woman—I need concrete evidence, dammit.

If we don't put these pieces together quickly, we could be too late.

I huff, trying to regain some control. I need to be patient. After Saturday, everything will be in motion. It should go off without a hitch
—right?

"Penny for your thoughts?" My eyes shoot up
. Jeremy is off the phone and stands in front of me. I have no easy response for him. He smiles a weakly. "That bad, huh?"

I shrug, trying to play indifferent. I don't want to talk. I feel tense and frustrated. The details of this assignment feel random and miscellaneous, and I know that isn't the case. I don't like not knowing.

Jeremy takes a seat next to me, and puts his arm around my shoulders. His embrace is warm and inviting. Immediately, I know where I want to be, and I lean in and nuzzle his neck. He kisses the top of my head. "It's OK. Let's not talk. Let's just think." He tightens the embrace, and runs his thumb up and down my arm in a relaxing rhythm.

I take a deep breath
, the beats of Jeremy's heart a calming metronome as I gather my puzzle pieces in my head, and sort through them.

What does any of this mean? Why do I feel helpless all of a sudden?

Patience, Alex, patience.

Attack & Accuracy

ALEX TURNER

I take in a deep breath. It's Friday morning
, and the more time that ticks by, the more I want it to be Saturday night. I have spent the past twenty-four hours distracted.

This is
my least favorite part of my job, but it is also the part Derek and Alvarado grind me for: my lack of patience
.
I mean, isn't it obvious? Look at my relationship.

I sip my coffee, then set it on the coffee table and place my computer on my lap. Jeremy is down the hall
, taking another business call. It's his sixth call since 7 a.m., and it's only nine.

I make myself comfortable
, realizing I can't remember the last time I slept in my own bed. My life has been such a whirlwind since last week, and I haven't given myself a moment to digest that simple fact. One week, and life turns into something I never anticipated.

Maybe this is my
normal, or at least as close as I'll ever get. Jeremy is pacing the halls, making his employees accountable while he's been away, and I'm sitting on his couch, enjoying the quiet moment, watching his delectable profile, and stealing a smile from time to time.

I should enjoy the quiet while it lasts
, but I can never sit still.

I'm still annoyed and frustrated. I stared at the screen capture of the woman from the surveillance video for hours, digging through our system files
, searching for her face, and I've found nothing. She must not be that important—does that make her worth remembering, or dangerous? I haven't a clue. I know I have seen her face, whether it be in person or in some picture on the wall back at headquarters. I gnaw at my lip, staring at the screen, wishing I could have a straight shot of her face. Why can't I place her?

In a single, swift movement,
the computer is ripped off my lap and placed on the coffee table.

"You need to stop driving yourself crazy."

My hazel eyes collide with his calm baby-blues, and I pout. "Jeremy, it's my job."

He laughs, taking a seat on the couch next to me. "Are you whining right now?"

I huff, frustrated. "Maybe."

"You have been staring at that computer since we
got back."

"So?" I sigh. Then, I begin to wonder if we have made any headway elsewhere. "Maybe I should call Derek."

Jeremy shakes his head, showing off his own pout. I squirm as he leans closer.

"Jeremy, don't
." It's a feeble attempt to halt his movements.

He
gives me his boyish, relaxed grin as he continues to lean in. He takes my earlobe in his teeth, heating my skin with the contact. "You talked to that guy all last night. I'm over it. I don't want you talking to him anymore for now. To be honest, I really want to tell him to fuck off."

I grin
from ear to ear. His jealousy is incredibly amusing. "Jeremy, it's called working."

"No" He shakes his head like a petulant child. "No more working."

I haphazardly try to push him away, but it only makes him more persistent. "Jeremy, you cannot distract me with your sexpertise."

"Why not?" He nip
s at my neck.

"Hmmm
, will you ever listen to me?"

He pulls away to look at me, runs his nose down the bridge of
my nose, and states sardonically, "Probably not. Besides, I am tired of sharing you, especially with him."

My eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise. I want to say his jealousy is misplaced, but if Jeremy really knew how Derek talked to me, he might not be happy. This is not a topic I would like to tackle right now. Jealousy in any form.

I decide to play along, swinging my leg over him and giggling. I suggestively straddle him and fondly put my hands on either side of his head to kiss his face. He smiles against my lips. "You have no shame, Jeremy," I breathe.

"Not with you I don't," he says.

I growl against his lips, and pull away. "How am I supposed to ever win with you?"

He tightens his grip playfully around my waist, and I yelp in surprise. "Maybe we'll be in this power struggle forever."

I rest my hands on his strong biceps. "Please don't say that." I place a chaste kiss on his lips.

A loud knock reverberates through the apartment
. What the ...?

I tense and look at
Jeremy. My senses are on full alert, like a dog that has perked up their ears at the sound of a possible threat.

"Did you order something?" I ask. I am on edge already.

Jeremy still maintains his endearing gaze, drunk with infatuation, as if he doesn't have a care in the world. He shrugs and says, "No, I don't think so. My dad could have mailed me something, who knows? He does it often."

But we just saw your dad, I want to say.
Why is he so unconcerned?

I crawl off him and stand. My eyes don't leave the front door. I can see a human form through the foggy glass. My heart rate is on the rise. Why am I getting
so anxious? This doesn't feel right. This is what the unexpected does to me.

"Relax, babe." Jeremy stands, placing a kiss on my cheek as he playfully slaps my behind. I smirk a little, but I don't budge.

He walks down the hall, and when he turns his back to me, I lean over the coffee table and grab my gun from my bag. I tuck it into the back of my jeans, but I don't let it go, ready at a moment's notice. And out of Jeremy's sight.

Jeremy glances at me when he reaches the door, smiling the smile that
normally makes me weak at the knees. An aching need to protect the person who makes me so damn happy creeps to the forefront. Why do I feel awful at this moment?

The door opens, and I see a man holding up a package. He holds it out to Jeremy, waiting for a signature.
Maybe it really is the FedEx guy. Maybe I am overreacting.

I exhale and relax the grip on my gun, but don't release it from my hand on principle.

As if Jeremy can feel me relax, he glances back again, flashing me those pearly whites. I smile back, and decide that I won't fully relax until that door is shut and locked.

Then
everything happens so fast
.

The box flies past Jeremy's head, and down toward the hall
—a diversion. The stranger grabs Jeremy as his back is turned. An arm yanks his tall frame backward. I don't even take the time to look at Jeremy's terror.

My gun arm swings around, and before I can process a thought
, I pull the trigger. This is what I am good at: making these right-now decisions. With reflexive, robotic precision, I get the guy right through the shoulder, narrowly missing Jeremy's neck.
Bazinga.

The stranger flies back and falls to his knees, but still reaches out
for Jeremy's legs. I sprint toward the door.

Jeremy jumps back and kicks the stranger hard in the face, knocking him
backward, but still conscious. Attaboy.

I come up to the assassin
, and flip my gun in my hand so I'm gripping the barrel. I swing it forward, hitting the man in the temple with the handle of my gun and rendering him unconscious in one swift motion. His face slams against the floor with a satisfying thump. His shoulder wound bleeds onto the dark wood, and half his body still dangles in the hallway.

My nose itches as the smell of fresh
gunpowder settles in the air. I stand, panting and waiting to regain my equilibrium, adrenaline coming down from its peak. I glance at Jeremy, who looks bewildered. I can see the whites of his eyes around his glacier look of fear. I can't bear his fear. I look away.

This is my life
; this is what I know. The truth hits hard.

I shift my stance to look down the hall. I know Jeremy isn't going to like this reaction, but I don't have any words to exchange right now. I will when I have time to think, but right
now, I have to finish this. There is protocol for good reason. I also need to get Jeremy out of here. He isn't safe. They came for him. This was deliberate. My heart palpitates at the thought.

Tucking my gun back
in my waistband, I lean down and grab the stranger's collar, dragging him inside so the neighbors don't see more than they might have already. I can feel Jeremy's stare, probably shocked at my strength. A girl my size isn't supposed to be able to move a two hundred-pound man with such ease.

Once the body is
moved, I kick the door closed behind me, and huff as I wipe the sweat off my brow. My adrenaline still seems to be flowing. When will my heart rate slow? However, I have missed this rush oh-so much.

I stride past Jeremy, not daring to look at him. I make it to my bag and
pull out two things—my cell phone and a pair of handcuffs—and stroll back to the passed out criminal.

Jeremy has not budged or said a word
. He is still gawking at me. I think I can hear him hyperventilating. My big, strong man has no idea what he has gotten into.

I roughly cuff the unconscious man's arms behind his back. I peek at his wound, and the bleeding is minimal. I mentally congratulate myself on my perfect shot. Always an ace, lucky for Jeremy.

My arms are beginning to shake, and I have to inhale in order to steady myself. I want to look at Jeremy. Just the sight of him is comforting, but I have to wrap this up. It's imperative on so many levels
.
I dial a number I know by heart. As I listen to it ring, I search the assassin's pockets for ID, until three rings later there's an answer.

"This is Agent
Turner; we have a ten-twenty-two at the Hunt residence. The individual is unconscious and cuffed. No ID. Male. Caucasian. Short brown hair. Mid-to-late thirties. Suspect has gunshot wound to left shoulder, bleeding minimal. I expect him to be unconscious for at least another thirty minutes. ... I am not sure; I'd say either kidnapping or physical attack, possible hit. I can't tell."

I reach around to his front pocket and pat him down, pulling a gun out of his waistband. I can't help my eyes from growing wide. I also pull out keys and a cell phone.

"Hmmm ... individual is armed with a gun, looks to be a Berretta M9." I disassemble the gun and slip the magazine from the handle to see ready bullets. "Gun is fully loaded. … No, I said no ID, just keys to a ... um ... looks like a truck key, though it looks like it may be a copy of the original, and a cell phone. Maybe we can trace it to the owner. ... Yes. ASAP. I need to get Mr. Hunt to a safe house. ... Ten-four, keep me informed. I'm taking the evidence with me just in case. ... Affirmative ... umm ... Protocol confirmed. Going offline for a full twenty-four."

I hang up my phone, and stroll into the kitchen to grab a
large, airlock plastic bag, placing all the listed evidence inside, including the gun. I return to the living room and stuff everything in my pack. Finally have finished everything I need to do, I swing the pack over my shoulder and focus on my still silent, shell-shocked boyfriend.

I need him. My adrenaline has exhausted me, and I can feel myself crumbling. I've never had so much at stake before. I inhale sharply and make my way to Jeremy
, who is still leaning against the wall. He looks so damn beautiful terrified. His blond hair is matted messily to his head with newly formed sweat, in that sexy, tousled way. His parted lips are distracting on this Greek god, and I can tell he is still panting from what has happened.

I wonder if he is shocked
by the brutality of the situation or by me in general. He will want to run from me now, won't he? I know it. This must all be crazy and overwhelming. It is even for me, but I chose this life. I live for this. As scattered as I am, I enjoy this. Calling it just an adrenaline rush doesn't do it justice, because it is much more to me.

I glance at my cell phone and realize only fifteen minutes have passed. Is that how long it took me?

Jeremy's unsure eyes lock with mine as I approach him, and for some reason, I want to cry. I never cry. I could have lost him.

I see this concerned look flit over his face. Even though my intention was to be the one to embrace him, he does it first. His hands come up to my face
, and I lean into his touch, closing my eyes. Why can't I speak?

His
lips press to mine, and like a cure, his kiss eases my nerves and his touch confirms he is still alive, but not safe.
I open my eyes, and break our kissing. I stroke his face, and then tug at his earlobe endearingly which triggers my most favorite smile.

"Are you
OK?" he whispers. His eyes tell me he is still scared, even though his voice exudes his usual calm persona. How can he be so strong right now?

I run my fingers through his hair. "I should be asking you that. I need to get you out of here. You are not
yet safe. Are
you
all right? I am sorry, Jeremy, so, so sorry. Please tell me you are OK."