Killing Time (One-Eyed Jacks) (7 page)

“Give it a rest,
chica
. This is not the path to the truth. You ever hear the expression ‘You can catch more flies with honey than Ketamine’?”

“Damn it, Brown. Just give it to me straight. What really happened on the mission?”

He slumped back in the chair, slowly shook his head. “Oh, no. I still haven’t gotten my answers. You’ve been lying to me since you opened your mouth. Why is this
really
so important to you? And seriously, if this is about a story, why not put the screws to the powers that be and leave me the hell out of it?”

The intensity in his blue eyes reminded her that while this was about her wanting answers, it was also about his life. His career. Both things he’d walked away from.

“Because the moment I said the words
Operation Slam Dunk
out loud to someone at the Department of Defense, I lost total access. They quit answering my e-mails, refused my phone calls. I get real suspicious—red-flag suspicious—when doors start slamming in my face.” Just like she got scared when she started noticing the same black sedan following within a few car lengths on the freeway each night. The same panel van parked a block away from her house.

He made a tired, cynical sound. “There are no stone walls like the U.S. military’s walls.”

She strained futilely against the cuffs again, then laid back against the pillows. “Listen, I have my own sources, my own methods. I can get to the bottom of this. But I need you to help me flesh things out, sift through the garbage and get to the real leads.”

He jerked his chin back. “Leads? Leads on what? An eight-year-old story that—at the risk of total redundancy—the military is going to stonewall like it’s Fort Knox?”

“Leads that might go beyond what happened in that valley that night.”

There. She’d said it.

“What are you talking about?”

“I wish I knew. But something . . . something’s way off.”

He looked completely baffled. “Is that not what I’ve been trying to tell you?”

“I had to find out for myself, okay? That’s why I’m here. That’s why I used extreme measures.”

He had nothing to say to that, but his expression said plenty. Somewhere, mixed in with the staged indifference and very real anger, was relief that she might actually believe him now. Which meant he wasn’t as apathetic about the hand he’d been dealt as he let on.

“Isn’t it time you found out?” She pressed her point. “Don’t you want to know who was responsible for what happened that night?”

Silence. A slow, methodical shake of his head. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Stone walls, remember? That’s not happening.”

“But what if it could? What if I could make it happen? What if
we
could make it happen?”

He pushed out a laugh. “What? So . . . now you want to help me clear my name?”

“I want to clear Ramon’s name,” she said honestly. “I couldn’t care less about clearing yours.”

He laughed again. “You are
such
a charmer.”

“Don’t you want to read the files?” she hurried on, ignoring his cynicism.

“Sure, fine. So show them to me. Or wait . . . if I frisk you, will I find them myself?”

His eyes were smug and baiting. And he was enjoying himself far too much at her expense.

“You really think I’d compromise my investigation by traveling with the flash drive? It’s not on me. It’s in a safe place. Back in the States.”

When he looked thoughtful, she pressed her advantage.

“Look. I haven’t added it all up yet—I can’t add it up without hearing your full story. Detail by detail. Call by call. You were there. You know what really happened. Who was there, who called the shots, who had something to gain. But the bits and pieces I
have
uncovered tell me that if you were set up—”

“We’re back to
if
again? You should really do something about this little bipolar thing you’ve got going on.”

She couldn’t blame him for doubting her. “If someone set up the team and framed you they could still be active duty. They could still be running bogus
reports to cover up other operations that are far from being in the interests of national security.”

He held up a hand. “Whoa. You a big Vince Flynn fan? Into spies and double-agent stories? Talk about a major leap,” he sputtered with a whole lot of cynicism.

Too much cynicism. So much that she knew he was actually thinking the very same thing but didn’t want to admit it. He struggled to hide it but he was interested. Real interested.

She decided to take a huge leap of faith. “Doors didn’t just slam in my face when I started asking questions. I can’t prove it, but I’m fairly certain that I’ve been followed.”

“Bipolar and paranoid. Throw in schizophrenic and you’ve hit the trifecta. They have padded rooms for people like you. Some of them even come with a view.” He touched a finger to his cheek again, winced.

“You think that didn’t cross my mind? That I wondered if I saw things where nothing existed? They were there. I’ve seen one too many cars, one too many times, behind me on the freeway or in my neighborhood. Sensed something out of place in my kitchen or my bedroom once too often.”

Just like she’d gotten that prickly sensation along the nape of her neck and that sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that had her sleeping with her gun every single night.

He had that hard look in his eyes again. The one she’d started to recognize as stubborn but intrigued.

“So why not go to the CIA with your speculations? Or the FBI. DHS. Hell, pick the alphabet agency of your choice. Let them investigate.”

Of course she couldn’t do either, because she worked for one and the other would go straight to the very people who could be involved in the cover-up.
If
there was a cover-up.

“You know that’s not how it works. In the first place, it’s illegal for the CIA to conduct ops inside U.S. borders without special dispensation from the president. In the second, the Carter administration destroyed the CIA’s human-intelligence capabilities and the current administration has continued the war on the CIA. Third, the FBI has bigger fish to fry. Department of Homeland Security? Forget it. Besides, they’d never believe someone was after me.”

He lifted his hands as though she’d just made his point. “Well . . . yeah . . . that’s because you’re nuts.”

One hundred percent nuts,
Mike thought, holding the line against his growing interest. She’d proven that from the get-go, right? She was nuts to take him on. Nuts to drug him.

“So are you going to help me or not?” she asked, more challenge than question.

He laughed. “That would be a not.”

“Not even if it means clearing your name? Not even if it means bringing whoever’s behind this to justice?”

“Not even.” Jaw clenched, he tried to ignore the pounding of his heart and the voice in his head that suggested he was making a mistake.

“Then you’re exactly who I thought you were. A cowardly, selfish bastard.”

He rose to his feet, tossing the syringe onto the table. “I do love living down to your expectations.”

“You know what your problem is?”

“I’m not the one with the problem.” He lifted his chin toward her bound hands as he prowled the room.

“You need to stop thinking about yourself,” she accused, not letting up. “Quit wallowing in your own self-pity and think about the men who died that night. About the men who took the rap with you. Ramon and the others deserve to have the record set straight. Cooper and Taggart deserve their day in court—deserve the trial they never got because you sold them out when you took a deal that steamrolled them along with you.”

“I didn’t sell them out. I saved their lives,” he countered, unable to stop his anger. Instead of rotting in a jail cell or six feet under, Cooper was living the good life in Australia, making money off his pretty-boy face modeling, screwing women, and not giving a shit. And for the past several years, Taggart had been doing what he wanted: working with a private contractor and mixing it up with the bad guys back in Afghanistan. Mike had saved their asses, but she didn’t get that. No one got it.

“Then save their honor,” she shouted back, and damn her, he swore she could see straight through him. See that even though he didn’t want to he still did care about what happened.

He still cared a lot.

“Help me find out who did this. Help me figure out if there’s more going on.”

He stalked toward the terrace doors, braced his palms on the frame above his head, and stared outside while she pecked away at him like a vulture on fresh meat.

“If we can get Cooper and Taggart on board, we can find whoever was responsible and expose them.”

“Get them on board?” He spun back around. The fire of conviction brightened her eyes; a flush of color stained her cheeks. A slice of smooth caramel skin peeked between the waistband of her jeans and the T-shirt that had ridden up her ribs. The generous swell of her breasts rose and fell with her agitated breaths.

And as angry as he was, as crazy as
she
was, damn if the sight of her didn’t turn him on like a flashlight.

Talk about fucked up.

“What alternate universe do you live in?” he snapped. “The boys and I aren’t exactly buddies anymore. They hate my guts. They’re not going to help me with anything.”

“And if they would?” She dangled the possibility like a carrot.

Damn his hide, he was tempted.
So
tempted to do something other than run from his past for a change. But it was pointless. “You’re dreaming if you think you can get either one of them to work with me again.”

Her coffee-dark eyes snapped with fire. “I don’t dream. I plan. I execute. And I make things happen.”

“Said the woman cuffed to the bed.”

“We can get Taggart and Cooper to help us,” she insisted.

He snorted. “When pigs wear tutus.”

“Look, Brown, before you tell me if you’re in or
out, you think about this. Think about slinking back to your
own
little alternate universe, where you try to convince yourself every single day that what happened to you, what happened to all those people, doesn’t matter. You try to convince yourself that you’re going to spend the
next
eight years and all the years after that hiding out from your demons, pretending you don’t care, pretending you don’t have an obligation to Taggart and Cooper. Pretending that you don’t have an obligation to yourself, for God’s sake! And what about to your country?”

She cut way too close to the quick with that one. “Are you fucking kidding me? You seriously played the patriot card?” He’d been sold down the river by the very people he’d pledged to protect and serve and almost died for. “I’ve paid that debt. One hundred times over. Try a new tactic,
chica
, ’cause that dog ain’t gonna hunt.”

“Fine. Then let’s try something you can relate to,” she said acidly. “I’ll pay you to help me.”

He considered how badly she hated him in this moment. It was never more evident than now as she lay there, tied up and helpless, yet making her best play to kill him with her disgust.

He thought about all the reasons he should tell her to fuck off, stay out of his life and out of his head. But the words that came out sealed his fate.

“Well, now. You’re finally talking my language.” She’d barely had a chance to register surprise, when he reached into his boot and retrieved his jackknife.

And he’d barely sliced the blade through the plastic cuffs, freeing her, when he heard a sound outside on the terrace that shot all his defenses to red alert.

•   •   •

Eva heard it, too. Someone was out there.

Her heart went crazy but she held it together and nodded that she understood when Brown pressed his fingers to his lips, signaling her to be quiet. When he pointed to the floor behind the bed, she didn’t hesitate. She rolled off the bed and dropped to her knees, using the mattress as the only available shield as Brown rushed back across the room to the table where their guns lay side by side.

He grabbed both and tossed her the Glock. She caught it and checked to make certain there was still a round in the chamber as, two-handing his Beretta, Brown moved like a big cat toward the wall beside the terrace door. He’d no sooner gotten into position, his back flattened against the wall, when the doors flew open and a masked figure burst into the room wielding an MP5K.

Eva scrambled toward the foot of the bed as the gunman fired a three-round burst at the pillow where her head had been.

She slid to her back and started firing at the same time she heard Brown’s Beretta pop off several rounds in quick succession.

The barrel of the MP5K jerked toward the ceiling as the gunman stumbled backward out of the room
and fell against the iron rail on the terrace. Brown shot outside after him as Eva scrambled to her feet and raced across the room to the terrace.

Brown was leaning over the railing when she reached his side. Her stomach rolled when she saw the scene down on the street. Their would-be assassin had fallen backward onto the roof of a cab. His prostrate body lay motionless in the dim light from the streetlamp as the startled driver scrambled out from behind the wheel.