Lethal (43 page)

She shook her head.

“How come?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Why are you crying?” he asked again.

“I’m not. Not anymore.” But even as she said it, fresh tears slid down her cheeks.

“Why’d you risk your life?”

“What?”

“Why’d you leave the garage on foot? Why were you coming toward the train?”

“I told you. I just… I… I don’t know.” The last three words rode out on a sob.

He started walking toward her. “Why are you crying, Honor?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” When he reached her, she said once again in a hoarse whisper, “I don’t know.”

For what seemed like the longest time, he did nothing except stare deeply into her tearful eyes. Then he raised his hands to either side of her face, slid his fingers up through her damp hair, and cupped her head. “Yeah you do.”

Angling his head, he kissed her as passionately as he had the night before, but this time she didn’t fight the sensations it evoked. She couldn’t have even if she had wanted to. They were explosive, consuming, and she gave herself over to them.

The stroking of his tongue, the mastery of his lips, even the placement of his large hands when they moved to her hips and drew her up against him made the kiss intensely sensual and caused dark and seductive curls of arousal deep within her lower body. And when he growled against
her lips, “Are you gonna stop?” she shook her head and drew him back to continue the kiss.

He lifted the hem of her T-shirt and worked it up her torso, then unhooked her bra and took her breasts in his hands. Honor whimpered with pleasure at the light tugging of his fingertips and gasped his name when he bent his head and closed his mouth around her nipple.

With one hand, he unfastened the khakis, then raised his head and held her mesmerized by the blue-hot intensity of his eyes as he took her hand, placed it on himself, and moved it up and down. He lifted his hand away, but hers remained and stroked him. He hissed a curse of surprise and delight when her thumb rubbed the tip.

Leaning into her, with his mouth against her ear, he whispered, “I think I’m gonna like the way you fuck.”

They kissed recklessly and hungrily as he kicked out of his pants and whipped the T-shirt over his head. He removed her T-shirt and bra just as quickly, then dropped to his knees and undid her jeans and pulled them down her legs along with her panties. He pressed a kiss just below her navel as he drew her down onto the floor.

Moving between her thighs, he stretched out above her, then thrust into her. Once. Because, as he did everything, he acted without hesitation or apology to claim her entirely. Her eyes went wide and her breath caught. Holding her gaze, he pressed himself deeper, barely easing back before pressing deep again.

She loved his weight on her, loved the heat of his clean skin, the feel of the hair on his chest against her breasts, the pressure he applied from inside and out, the smell and rough texture of his body, his maleness. Boldly, he pushed her knee back toward her chest, changing the angle of
his thrusts and heightening the friction, and the pleasure increased tenfold.

It was immense. Almost unbearable. She bit her lower lip. She covered her eyes with the back of one forearm, while with her other hand she tried to get a grip on her spinning universe by attempting to dig her fingers into the hardwood floor. But she continued slipping, slipping, slipping toward…

“Honor.”

Gasping, she lowered her arm from over her eyes and looked into his face.

“Put your hands on me. Pretend this means something.”

With a whimper, she wrapped her arms around him and clutched his back, then slid her hands down over his ass and drew him even deeper into her. He groaned, buried his face in the hollow of her neck, and rocked his body against hers. An orgasm burst through her at the same time he came.

She pretended nothing.

F
or Clint Hamilton the wait was agonizing.

An hour ago, an agent in the Lafayette office had called to inform him that the scheduled meeting between Honor Gillette and Tom VanAllen had ended disastrously with a car bomb explosion.

Since receiving the staggering news, Hamilton had been alternately pacing his Washington office or sitting with his elbows propped on his desk supporting his head while he massaged his forehead. He considered taking a shot from the bottle of Jack that he kept in his bottom desk drawer. He resisted. Whatever the forthcoming update from Tambour was, he needed to receive it with a clear head.

He waited. He paced. He wasn’t a patient man.

The anticipated call came shortly after 01:00 EDT.

Unhappily the update confirmed that Tom VanAllen had died in the explosion.

“My condolences, sir,” the agent in Louisiana said. “I know you had a special regard for him.”

“Yes, thank you,” Hamilton replied absently. “And Mrs. Gillette?”

“VanAllen was the only casualty.”

Hamilton nearly dropped the phone. “What? Mrs. Gillette? Coburn? The child?”

“Whereabouts unknown,” the agent told him.

Mystified, Hamilton processed that, but couldn’t come up with an explanation. He asked, “What is the local fire department saying about the explosion?”

He was told that an arson inspector from New Orleans had been asked to assist in the investigation. ATF agents had also been summoned. There were many unanswered questions, but of one thing the authorities were certain: Only one body was discovered in the burned-out car.

Hamilton asked if VanAllen’s wife had been notified. “I want to call her myself, but not before she’s been officially informed.”

“Two agents have been dispatched to the VanAllen home.”

“Keep me posted on that. I also want to know anything else you hear, whether it’s official or scuttlebutt. Anything. Especially about Coburn and Mrs. Gillette.”

He ended the call and slammed his fist onto his desk. Why the hell hadn’t Coburn called to advise him of his present position and situation? Damn the man! Although, he grudgingly admitted to himself, a car bomb wouldn’t exactly inspire an agent’s confidence in his agency, would it?

Hamilton decided that the situation down there could no longer be handled by long distance. He needed to go himself. In hindsight, he wished he had jetted to Louisiana immediately after receiving that first SOS call from Coburn. Since then, the shit had only gotten thicker.

He placed a series of calls and secured clearance from
his superiors. He asked for a squad of agents trained for special ops. “No less than four men, no more than eight. I want them at Langley, geared up and ready to board the jet at 02:30.”

Everyone with whom he spoke asked why he was flying men and equipment down there when he could use personnel from the district office in New Orleans.

His answer to all of them was the same. “Because I don’t want anyone to know I’m coming.”

When her doorbell rang, Janice VanAllen ran to answer it, mindful that she was wearing only her nightgown, but uncaring about her lack of modesty. She had her phone in her hand and a look of concern on her face when she pulled open the front door.

Two strangers looked back at her. One was male, the other female, but their dark suits and serious expressions were practically identical.

“Mrs. VanAllen?” The woman palmed a leather ID wallet and extended it toward Janice. Her partner did the same. “I’m Special Agent Beth Turner, this is Special Agent Ward Fitzgerald. We’re from Tom’s office.”

Janice’s chest rose and fell on several short breaths. “Where’s Tom?”

“May we come in?” the woman asked kindly.

Janice shook her head. “Where is Tom?”

They remained silent, but their stoicism spoke volumes.

Janice made a keening sound and gripped the edge of the door for support. “He’s dead?”

Special Agent Turner reached for her, but Janice jerked her arm back before the woman could touch her. “He’s dead?” she repeated, this time on a ragged cry. And then her knees gave way and she crumpled to the floor.

The two FBI agents lifted her and supported her between them, half carrying her into the living room where they deposited her on the sofa. All the while Janice was screaming Tom’s name.

Then Agents Turner and Fitzgerald began asking her questions.

Is there someone we can call to come be with you?

“No,” she sobbed into her hands.

Your minister? A friend?

“No, no.”

Is there a family member who should be notified?

“No! Just tell me what happened.”

Can we make you some tea?

“I don’t want anything! I only want Tom! I want my husband!”

Is your son…

Clearly they knew about Lanny, but didn’t know how to phrase a question regarding him. “Lanny, Lanny,” she chanted mournfully. “Oh, God.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Tom had loved their son. As hopeless as it was that his love would ever be returned, Tom’s love for Lanny had never wavered.

Special Agent Turner sat down beside her and placed a comforting arm across her shoulders. Fitzgerald had moved away and was now standing across the room with his back to them, speaking softly into a cell phone.

Turner said, “You’ll have the full support of the bureau, Mrs. VanAllen. Tom was well liked and respected.”

Janice threw off her arm and wanted badly to slap her. Tom wasn’t respected at all, and, to hear Tom tell it, few of his fellow agents had liked him.

“How did it happen?”

“We’re still trying to determine—”

“How did it happen?” Janice repeated harshly.

“He was alone in his car.”

“His car?”

“He was parked near some abandoned railroad tracks.”

Janice raised trembling fingers to her lips. “Oh, God. Suicide? We… we had a quarrel this afternoon. He left the house upset. I’ve been trying to call him, to… to explain. Apologize. But he wouldn’t answer his phone. Oh, God!” she wailed and shot to her feet.

Turner grabbed her hand and pulled her back down onto the sofa. She stroked her arm. “Tom didn’t take his own life, Mrs. VanAllen. He was killed in the performance of his duty. The initial report is that a bomb was planted on his car.”

Janice gaped at her. “A
bomb
?”

“An explosive device, yes. A full investigation is already under way.”

“But who… who—”

“It pains me to tell you that the person suspected of involvement is another agent.”

“Coburn?” Janice whispered.

“You know of him?”

“Of course. First because of the warehouse massacre. Then Tom told me he was an agent working undercover.”

“Did they have contact?”

“Not to my knowledge. Although Tom told me earlier today that he might be called upon to bring Coburn in.” She read the pained expression on the agent’s face. “That’s the duty Tom was performing?”

“Mrs. Gillette was supposed to be at the train tracks. Tom went there to get her.”

“Coburn set him up?”

“We’re trying to ascertain—”

“Please tell me that Coburn is in custody.”

“Unfortunately no.”

“Jesus Christ, why not? What have you people been doing? Coburn is obviously crazy. If he’d been apprehended before tonight, as he should have been, Tom would still be alive.” Composure deserted her. She sobbed, “The whole freaking bureau is incompetent, and because of it, Tom is
dead
.”

“Mrs. VanAllen?”

Janice jumped. She wasn’t aware that Fitzgerald had rejoined them until he laid a hand on her shoulder and spoke her name.

He held his cell phone out to her. “For you.”

She stared at him, then at the phone, and eventually took it from him and put it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Mrs. VanAllen? This is Clint Hamilton. I just heard about Tom. I wanted to call and tell you personally how profoundly—”

“Fuck you.” She disconnected and handed the phone back to the agent.