Lie with Me (15 page)

“
Ri …
”

Dylan’s voice sounded far away. She was vaguely aware that he led her down the hall, to another room. His room
.

She’d slept for hours—stress, fear. It was ridiculous how hard the break-in had hit her. It was, no doubt, random. There were no signs that she’d been targeted by another spy—they tended to wait around and talk to her via bullets rather than a smash and grab job
.

She’d pulled off ops most men and women never dreamed about—faced her fears and had been dogged about using her position to try to find intel about her father’s case. She’d been to the edge—over it—and back. And a petty thief was making her break down. In front of Dylan
.

When she’d woken, she found a note from him. He’d cleaned up the mess, checked her out of that room
.

And left her with a laden room-service tray, and the feeling that he’d taken her heart with him this time. Because there were also new clothes. A computer. An iPod
.

iPod. She pressed the dial, discovered the sleek gunmetal gray machine was fully charged—and loaded with music
.

Her music. Even the songs she was embarrassed to admit she liked
.

How had he known? Out of everything, music was one of the only things that had gotten her through the years after her father died. She couldn’t carry a tune worth a damn, but that didn’t matter—there was something soothing about blocking out the rest of the world and letting the songs comfort her
.

Besides, no one could take that away from her. Even today
,
when she needed to travel light, she could still take her iPod along
.

But Dylan had obviously known
.

Her cell phone began to ring. Dylan. She picked it up, didn’t bother with hello. “How did you know … about the music?
”

“
You always have your iPod with you. And you sing to yourself sometimes. You get this dreamy look when you listen to music—like you relax, forget everything. It’s almost the same look you have when we’re in bed together.
”

She felt the tears well and swallowed hard. She’d shown enough weakness in front of him for a lifetime. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.
”

“
I learned a long time ago that no matter how small it is, whatever gets you through the day is the most important thing.
”

She wished he was there, wanted to wind her hand inside of his, hold tight and not let go
.

She wanted to tell him that he was on his way to becoming what saw her through her day—or he could be, in a very short amount of time
.

But she knew she was asking for something she should never, ever want. Depending on Dylan—on anyone—was a mistake
.

“You need to stay out of it completely. Go away, leave town and forget about me,” she told him now.

“Way too late for that. I won’t rest until I take Gabriel down. If that means taking you down in the process, so be it. But just know that I gave you the choice.” His tone was fierce. When Dylan wanted to be, he was easily an unyielding force of nature, and she’d managed to conjure up a storm. “Gabriel’s daughter’s in danger because of you. She’s an innocent and now she’s going to pay for her father’s crimes. Sound familiar?”

He left her lying there as he walked away, started down the path that ran alongside her house, toward the street.

Her eyes filled with tears—half-relief, half-desperation. She fought the urge to vomit, the bile rising inside of her as her head swam. “I didn’t want to know that.”

She thought she’d whispered those words softly into the air, but she swore she saw Dylan’s shoulders stiffen slightly at her admission before he continued on his way.

CHAPTER

7

Z
ane’s cell had been ringing all goddamned day. Unfortunately, the party he’d been at the night before had been so fucking off the hook that his entire body was still offline.

For him, time off equaled trouble, and he’d manage to find it in spades within the next twenty-four hours unless otherwise occupied. During leave from his SEAL team, he found himself looking for more action, more risks.

And so even though he wasn’t happy with the phone shit, he was hoping there was an interesting proposition on the other end of the line.

He checked the messages. Six of them.

Dylan.

Dylan.

More Dylan. Cursing at him so fluently it actually sounded like a foreign language.

Zane could appreciate that, but not so much when directed at him. He ignored the remaining three messages and dialed Dylan’s number.

“Nice of you to wake yourself,” Dylan bit out.

“I thought my job getting intel on Riley was done.” Zane poured a large mugful of coffee and decided it needed to be black for it to work. And in IV form, but that wasn’t really an option.

Or was it? He stared at the old IV bag he’d used to give himself a dose of glucose the other morning, and wondered if an invention like that would be viable.

“This call isn’t about Riley,” Dylan growled.

He’d been there when Dylan fell apart over Riley, even though Dylan hadn’t asked. Mainly because he got it—much more than Caleb would’ve.

“
Why would she shoot me over Gabriel’s files?
”

“
She either loves him or hates you,” Zane said. “It’s why a woman does anything. Yeah, and fighting turns them all on.
”

“
How do you ever get a date with all that shit you talk?
”

“
Date?” Zane raised a brow. “You’re really old school.
”

Again, Dylan looked as if he was fighting a strong urge to kill him, saying only, “Please go.
”

That’s how Zane had known Dylan was on his way to healing. Of course, his idea of healing would have been not to hook up with the same woman who’d put a bullet through him, but hell, Zane got it.

“…  you even listening to me?” Dylan was demanding on the other end of the phone, sounding suspiciously like a boss, or a girlfriend, and Zane didn’t take to either of those well.

“Ya. Listening.” He shoved the IV bag in the garbage, wrote down the info Dylan gave him and grabbed a to-go coffee on the way out of Virginia, knowing he’d be stopping for many more on the drive down to Florida.

But there hadn’t been enough coffee in the fucking world to help him deal with what Dylan wanted. No, whiskey might’ve helped instead, because a visit to a goddamned jail was enough to shrink a man’s balls.

Nothing like the last assignment, which involved a lot more fun. And women, all of whom needed nothing more than a drink and an orgasm, and not necessarily in that order.

But he’d squeezed the Riley Sacadano well dry, and he’d need to be mission-ready for the SEALs come next week. He’d be doing his six-month tour with Team Twelve—and who knew what hellhole they’d be visiting this trip.

Speaking of hellholes, he pulled into the prison’s parking lot and stared up at the large, gray buildings that stretched at least a mile long and three stories high. He’d been in some fucked-up situations—the threat of capture was always real—but this, humans trapped in cages, always made him feel claustrophobic.

Forcing himself out of the car and into the visitor’s waiting area, he flashed the dummied fed ID Dylan had given him years ago.

The bars slammed behind him, and even though Zane was only visiting, he still had the urge to turn and take down every guard to escape.

He’d probably been watching too much of that jailed-abroad show on the National Geo Channel. Yeah, way too much time on his hands lately.

“Down this way, sir. Private visiting room number four.” The guard pointed to the heavy steel door. “The prisoner will be escorted in through the second door.”

Zane walked into the closed room, complete with a table and chairs, all nailed to the floor, and hooks where the prisoners could be chained by both hands and feet.

The guy he was visiting was a sixty-year-old Outlaw Angel lieutenant doing time for drug trafficking. It hadn’t been easy, finding an OA who wasn’t a lifer.

Lifers won’t talk as easily as men who thought they had something to gain by giving intel. Especially if they thought the man in front of them was some kind of special agent, which Zane had led the OA to believe in order to get a meeting with him.

Zane whipped out the ID and let the guy named Boz stare at it for a while.

Boz tossed it back at him, his mouth pulled in a permanent sneer thanks to a scar that looked like he’d nearly had his nose and lip torn off. “I don’t talk to feds.”

“I need to know about a man in your chapter—a Howie Moore,” Zane said anyway.

“I ain’t no snitch.”

Yeah, sure, buddy
. Dylan would’ve given the guy money. Zane preferred to work through fear—way more effective in the long run. “But you are a snitch. Or at least the guys in your local chapter will think so when I’m done.”

Boz lunged, but the chains would only let him go so far, and he was pulled back into the metal chair. “Little fucking asshole.”

“Not so little, Boz. I’m sure your chapter’s president won’t be happy to hear you’re talking. And I do believe his brother’s on your floor in this lovely establishment.”

Boz looked around, like his gang was waiting in the wings to beat the shit out of him. Finally, he leaned forward and said, “Howie was killed the night of those murders.”

Zane leaned forward as well. “I heard the men were FBI agents.”

“I heard the same rumor.”

“Who killed Howie?”

Boz paused and for a long moment Zane figured, same old, same old—that the man wanted to seem like he knew everything, but a lot of these guys had gotten left in the dark when it came to matters like murdering chaptermates.

Finally, Boz spoke, his voice so low Zane almost missed it. “Sinister.”

Sinister.
Sinister?
“Who the fuck is that? No one I’ve spoken to ever mentioned an OA named Sinister. Stop fucking with me,” Zane growled.

Boz held up his hands. “It’s the truth, man. We’re not supposed to talk about the guy. Ever. He was OA from the Miami chapter. A chief. No one would’ve gone against him. He told us that Howie was the traitor, that Howie killed the FBI agents to set all of us up.” Boz shook his head in disgust. “I never believed it. Howie had your fucking back, man, no matter what.”

Sinister. An OA.
Fuck
. Zane knew how much this meant to Dylan—and to Cam—and leaving here with an answer like the one he’d gotten didn’t sit well. And still, he pulled out of his pocket the picture of Gabriel he’d printed out earlier from his email. “Know this guy?”

“What is this, a fucking joke? That’s Sinister,” Boz growled. “How the hell did you get that picture?”

Zane smiled. “You let me worry about that. You’re sure this man killed Howie the night of the double murder?”

“Damned sure. Sinister killed Howie. I saw it happen. Got more to lose by telling you than I do by lying.” He paused. “Howie was a good brother. Didn’t deserve what he got in the end. I never believed the story that Howie was double-crossing the OA.”

Yeah, neither did his son. Zane felt the walls begin to close in on him and was just glad he didn’t have to be the one to break the news about Gabriel to Cam.

S
ky had followed Cam into the kitchen, still shaken, watched him carry the body out the back door. That’s when she saw the blood on the refrigerator, the two other men lying dead, and realized that the time for questions was not now. And so she turned tail and packed fast, grabbing anything she could get her hands on and then dragging the heavy suitcase out of the bedroom and into the living room. From there, she packed the computer and her phone and grabbed her bag with the pills and stood there dumbly, waiting for Cam.

He was still outside and he’d taken the other two bodies with him. Immediately, she felt better, but still cursed herself for leaving information lying around her apartment, and then realized how stupid that was. It was her place—she should be able to leave things lying around in her own home.

Never leave important personal information sitting out where people can find it
, both parents would lecture.

Her doing so was complete rebellion, coupled with a sense of safety.

The thought of people inside her apartment, rifling through her things, was less upsetting than the fact that they were tracking her. That this wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

And if Cam hadn’t been here …

No, she couldn’t think about that. Wouldn’t worry that, as of now, she and Cam would both be wanted for questioning, and she wondered if the CIA could help them. She only knew that calling the local police for help wasn’t any kind of option.

Don’t trust anyone, Skylar
. Her father’s words. Always, his words.

But she had to trust someone. There was no way she could handle this herself, alone.

There was broken glass, and blood, on the kitchen floor, and she grabbed a pair of rubber gloves from under the sink and paper towels and carefully wiped it all up.

“Sky.”

She looked up at Cam, who was watching her crouched on the floor, putting the last of the mess, including the gloves, into a garbage bag. “We can’t leave it like this.”

“I know. But I would’ve done it.”

“I’m in this just as much as you are,” she told him as she stood.

He was on her with one long stride, took her shoulders in his hands. “No, you’re not
in
anything. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

“I know. It just feels that way.” It felt the way it had when her mother had been killed. She remembered the men in dark suits. The too-clean kitchen.

The fact that all the pictures had been taken away, including the photo albums. Her life before the age of sweet sixteen pretty much erased.

Her father’s assurances of
You’ve done nothing wrong, Skylar
.