information on Rickey Charles’s murder.”
Which either meant that Rickey hadn’t been killed on al-Jihad’s order…or Fairfax was clandestinely working against the terrorists somehow.
That might explain why he’d been unable to kill her in cold blood, and why he’d had a death-mimicking drug hidden in the heel of his shoe, one that hadn’t shown up on any of the tests the doctors had run, and had left her feeling energized rather than half-dead. It was a high-tech, classified drug of some sort, one that—
She stalled her train of thought before it went off the rails, because the scenario was too Hollywood to be real.
Still, she couldn’t help asking, “Who…who do you work for?”
Surprise flashed in his eyes, one of the few emotions she’d been able to read there during her brief association with the escaped convict—or whatever he really was.
“The group doesn’t have a name,” he said carefully.
She felt a spurt of something that shouldn’t have seemed like excitement. “Who signs your checks?”
“No checks. I’m paid in wire transfers from shell companies held by other shell companies.” But he knew what she was asking, and finally said, “If you go deep enough, the money comes from the U.S. government.”
“You’re undercover.”
He nodded to the bookshelves that lined most of one wall of her living room. They were filled with paperbacks and DVDs. “You read too many spy novels.”
“You’re telling me I’m wrong?”
“No, just that you shouldn’t confuse fiction with reality.”
“Did you kill those FBI agents? The ones in Montana?”
He shook his head. “No. That was part of the cover.”
“But you have killed people.”
“Yes,” he said calmly. “But right now I’m not looking to kill anyone. I need to get into the ME’s office, and I need someone to translate Ricky Charles’s autopsy findings into lay English for me.” He paused, and seemed reluctant to admit, “You’re right, I’m one of the good guys, more or less. I’m part of a unit that’s so secure we don’t even know each other. We only know our handler, who goes by the name Jane Doe, and doesn’t appear in any government database that I’ve ever accessed. Anyway, I haven’t been able to get in touch with Jane since late last night, which means I’m low on options here. I’m asking for your help.”
“Why can’t you reach her?”
“My guess? Because she’s dead.”
Chapter Four
Chelsea thought she heard something in his voice—pain, maybe, and anger—but she couldn’t be sure. He was so brutally controlled that very little broke through.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and there was a serious quaver in her voice, because the whole conversation seemed patently unbelievable. Handsome undercover operatives just didn’t break into the homes of people like her and ask them for help. They just didn’t.
Then again, people like her didn’t normally get kidnapped, drugged and rescued either.
“Will you help?” he asked, holding her eyes with his.
“Why me?” she managed to ask, her voice sounding thin and strange. “How did you find me? How did you get in here?”
They weren’t the most important questions, but they were the only ones she could manage right then, as a whirl of thoughts jammed her brain and her inner wimp told her to stay the hell away from Fairfax, while her spy-loving self wanted to know more, wanted to know everything.
“The first two questions have the same answer,” he said. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a flat plastic square, and flipped it to her.
She caught it on the fly. “My name tag. Which answers how you found me—I’m in the phone book, on Google, however you want to look me up. But it doesn’t explain why you came to me.”
“Because you work in the ME’s office.”
“Oh. Right. And that was the only reason?” She knew it was stupid of her to ask, and even stupider to feel a spurt of disappointment.
“The only one I’m
Which either meant that Rickey hadn’t been killed on al-Jihad’s order…or Fairfax was clandestinely working against the terrorists somehow.
That might explain why he’d been unable to kill her in cold blood, and why he’d had a death-mimicking drug hidden in the heel of his shoe, one that hadn’t shown up on any of the tests the doctors had run, and had left her feeling energized rather than half-dead. It was a high-tech, classified drug of some sort, one that—
She stalled her train of thought before it went off the rails, because the scenario was too Hollywood to be real.
Still, she couldn’t help asking, “Who…who do you work for?”
Surprise flashed in his eyes, one of the few emotions she’d been able to read there during her brief association with the escaped convict—or whatever he really was.
“The group doesn’t have a name,” he said carefully.
She felt a spurt of something that shouldn’t have seemed like excitement. “Who signs your checks?”
“No checks. I’m paid in wire transfers from shell companies held by other shell companies.” But he knew what she was asking, and finally said, “If you go deep enough, the money comes from the U.S. government.”
“You’re undercover.”
He nodded to the bookshelves that lined most of one wall of her living room. They were filled with paperbacks and DVDs. “You read too many spy novels.”
“You’re telling me I’m wrong?”
“No, just that you shouldn’t confuse fiction with reality.”
“Did you kill those FBI agents? The ones in Montana?”
He shook his head. “No. That was part of the cover.”
“But you have killed people.”
“Yes,” he said calmly. “But right now I’m not looking to kill anyone. I need to get into the ME’s office, and I need someone to translate Ricky Charles’s autopsy findings into lay English for me.” He paused, and seemed reluctant to admit, “You’re right, I’m one of the good guys, more or less. I’m part of a unit that’s so secure we don’t even know each other. We only know our handler, who goes by the name Jane Doe, and doesn’t appear in any government database that I’ve ever accessed. Anyway, I haven’t been able to get in touch with Jane since late last night, which means I’m low on options here. I’m asking for your help.”
“Why can’t you reach her?”
“My guess? Because she’s dead.”
Chapter Four
Chelsea thought she heard something in his voice—pain, maybe, and anger—but she couldn’t be sure. He was so brutally controlled that very little broke through.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and there was a serious quaver in her voice, because the whole conversation seemed patently unbelievable. Handsome undercover operatives just didn’t break into the homes of people like her and ask them for help. They just didn’t.
Then again, people like her didn’t normally get kidnapped, drugged and rescued either.
“Will you help?” he asked, holding her eyes with his.
“Why me?” she managed to ask, her voice sounding thin and strange. “How did you find me? How did you get in here?”
They weren’t the most important questions, but they were the only ones she could manage right then, as a whirl of thoughts jammed her brain and her inner wimp told her to stay the hell away from Fairfax, while her spy-loving self wanted to know more, wanted to know everything.
“The first two questions have the same answer,” he said. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a flat plastic square, and flipped it to her.
She caught it on the fly. “My name tag. Which answers how you found me—I’m in the phone book, on Google, however you want to look me up. But it doesn’t explain why you came to me.”
“Because you work in the ME’s office.”
“Oh. Right. And that was the only reason?” She knew it was stupid of her to ask, and even stupider to feel a spurt of disappointment.
“The only one I’m
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