Lord of the Wolfyn and Twin Targets (28 page)

And none of those feelings were real, he knew. They were illusions, his own internal construct of what affection was supposed to feel like.

He’d thought he was in love once before, and had later learned it was all a lie.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered against her temple, his breath stirring the fine hairs that had fallen across her lovely face.

“Mmm?” She stirred against him, frowning as though fighting consciousness when fantasies were so much better.

He didn’t repeat himself.

“I said it’s time to get going.” He nudged her awake. “If we’re gone much longer, Grace is going to send SWAT out after us.” That was an overstatement—he’d checked in with the computer specialist an hour ago—but they couldn’t stay where they were.

His place might be safe from Tiberius, but he was quickly learning that spending time alone with Sydney carried other, equally dangerous risks.

“Come on. Rise and shine.” He got her up and moving despite her sleepy protests, and loaded her in his car. She slept most of the way back to the safe house, which was a relief, but she’d begun to wake up on her own by the time they were a few miles out.

She yawned and stretched, the motion pulling her cheeky red sweater tight across her breasts in a way he couldn’t force himself to ignore—especially not after having experienced her body firsthand.

Their kiss was something he feared his brain would keep on instant recall for far too long.

Jaw set, John forced himself to face front and keep driving. “You should put the Kevlar back on.”

He hadn’t seen any signs of pursuit, but he also wasn’t taking any chances. This was Tiberius they were talking about, and the criminal businessman didn’t believe in losing. He also didn’t believe in loose ends.

He would come after Sydney—it was inevitable. That left it up to John and his team to try to control the when and where, and hope to hell they got it right.

He hadn’t used her as bait tonight, but that didn’t mean he might not be forced to do just that in the near future. The very thought of it chilled him, made him want to pull her close and promise her impossible things.

Instead, he waved to the surveillance team sitting in a darkened car on the street outside the safe house as he drove past, and hit the button to open the door of the safe house’s attached garage.

He’d phoned Grace from the road to check that everything was status quo, and had gotten the all-clear. He called through again once they were in the garage, using the prearranged signal, and got the proper counterpassword in return, indicating that it was safe to bring Sydney inside.

“Come on.” He didn’t draw his weapon, but stayed close to her on the way into the house, just in case. Once they were inside he took the lead, heading for the kitchen. “Grace hinted earlier that she was closing in on something. Maybe she’s got something that’ll—”

He broke off at the sight that confronted him.

Impressions came to him in strobe-quick flashes: Grace bound to a kitchen chair, head lolling in a drug-induced stupor, her computer trashed and two thugs standing behind her, weapons at the ready.

Before John could react, one of them shot Grace in the temple, execution-style.

Grace!
John had his gun in his hand seconds later and opened fire, his brain short-circuiting on rage and sick horror as his teammate collapsed sideways, her mouth askew, her eyes glazing in death.

His first bullet caught Grace’s murderer in the upper chest, spinning the gunman away from her and sending him to his knees in a spray of blood. The second guy ducked and bolted out of the kitchen and through the back door.

For a second John was torn between his imperative to guard his protectee, and the all-consuming need to gun down the bastard who’d just killed his teammate.

Then he heard something that made the decision for him: the crash of breaking glass sounded in the front room, followed by a thump and the sound of a metal object rolling across the hardwood floor.

Grenade,
his brain supplied. He didn’t know if it was a flash-bang or gas, but he wasn’t sticking around to find out.

Walling the grief and shock off in a small corner of his consciousness, he snapped to agent mode, processing and rejecting his available choices. He didn’t dare go out the kitchen door; it was a sure bet the second gunman would be waiting, his need to finish the job no doubt fueled by the knowledge of what had happened to the last pair of killers to fail Tiberius.

That really left only one option: they had to go down.

In a reflex arc that didn’t even make it to his brain before he was on the move, John grabbed Sydney and dragged her across the kitchen, past Grace and the small blood pool gathering beneath her chair. He yanked open the door that led to the basement. “Come on!”

The lights flickered on the moment the door opened, showing a set of plain wooden stairs. He charged down them, hauling Sydney along as the seconds ticked down in his head.

Behind and above him, there were more thump-roll sounds, followed by the boom of a flash-bang stun grenade, the powerful noise muted by walls and distance.

It wasn’t the flash-bangs that had him moving fast, though. He had to assume the additional sounds were gas canisters. It only made sense, because Tiberius didn’t want to blow Sydney up; he wanted her alive, and in his power.

And that so wasn’t going to happen if John had anything to say about it. Heart hammering in his ears, jaw set in determination, he had only one goal right now: to get Sydney out alive.

After that, it was war.

The basement was a cement cube containing a furnace and water heater but none of the usual basement clutter, because nobody actually lived in the safe house year-round. In addition to the electrical panel and other basement stuff, there was a door set in the wall opposite the furnace. John yanked it open, revealing a low, cement-lined tunnel.

The air in the basement had already started to turn with the first whiff of the gas, suggesting that Tiberius’s men were using one of the newer cocktails, which readily diffused down, as well as up. Worse, footsteps sounded from above, indicating that the men had donned masks rather than waiting for the air to clear. Any moment now, they’d figure out that their quarry had gone to ground.

Muffled shouts and the quickening tramp overhead signaled they already had.

“Go!” John pushed Sydney ahead of him. Once they were both inside the tunnel, he yanked the heavy door shut and spun the lock, then urged her along the tunnel ahead of him. “Hurry!”

He was less worried about the men following through the tunnel, and more worried that they’d quickly figure out where it led.

The lights had come up when he’d opened the door. The thin fluorescent strips, which were hung on either side of the low cement tunnel, lit the way as they scrambled along. They had to crouch down, bent nearly double as they moved as fast as they could on their feet, hands, knees, whatever part of them could keep the forward momentum going.

Sydney didn’t say a word, just kept going as the walls closed in on them and the air started to carry a whiff of gas that had John’s head spinning. Her jaw was set, her skin very pale and he had a feeling her brain was jammed—as was his—on the sight of Grace tied to a kitchen chair, shot dead with a bullet in her brain.

How in the hell had that happened?

He’d checked in regularly. Hell, he’d even checked in from the garage. What had gone wrong? How had Tiberius found the safe house? How had his men gotten past the security system, and the surveillance teams who were supposed to be keeping watch from the outside?

Knowing that the others teams might also be dead, John felt his heart chill in his chest, felt something wither up and die within him. He stumbled and went down, the gas-tainted fumes sapping his strength, but he forced himself to struggle up and keep going, shoving Sydney ahead of him.

“There should be a door,” he said, hearing his breath rattle in his lungs.

“I don’t—” she said weakly, then gave a low cry. “There’s a turn up ahead. Maybe that’s it.”

It wasn’t, but once they made the turn they could see the door at the end of the tunnel, which sloped slightly upward until it ended in a metal slab that was twin to the one they’d entered through. Shuffling in their awkward crouches, laboring to suck tainted air into their cramped lungs, they hurried to the door. Sydney fumbled to unlock it, and for a frozen second John feared it was jammed on the other side, that Tiberius’s men had already beaten them to the neighboring house, which was also owned by the government for use as a safe house and as an escape route.

“Got it!” She finally got the lock open, twisted the handle and moved to shove open the door.

“Wait.” John grabbed her. “Me first.” He couldn’t let them make a foolish mistake in the mad rush to escape the bad air. Crowding past her so he led the way, weapon at the ready, he tried to gather his scrambled brain cells and cracked open the door.

For a second there was nothing but blackness. Then the swing of the door triggered the basement lights and they clicked on to reveal…nothing.

The basement was as empty as the one they’d just left. Even better, he didn’t detect movement on the floor above, and the air was clean, though faintly humid with typical cellar dampness.

“Come on.” Moving fast, he got her out of the tunnel and shut the door, then crossed to the stairs. He put a finger to his lips to caution silence, and they crept up the stairs with him in the lead and her breathing down the back of his neck, both of them trying not to make a sound.

Tension hummed through him. Fear, not that he’d be hurt—that was part of the job description—but that he might not be quick enough or good enough to keep the woman behind him safe.

He’d failed Grace. He didn’t want to fail Sydney.

Tightening his grip on his weapon, he paused at the top of the stairs and flicked off the lights.

Sydney stiffened behind him. For a second he thought it was because of the darkness, or the shock settling in to her system. Then he heard it, too.

Footsteps.

He had a split second to consider his options, which were seriously slim. They couldn’t go back into the tunnel because of the foul air, and because Tiberius’s men could block them in from either end. There was another way out of the basement—a set of stairs leading to a traditional bulkhead—but odds were good that if Tiberius’s people had discovered the second empty house, they had the grounds covered, too. That left him with going through the house itself.

The layout was identical to that of the house Sydney had been staying in, the furniture and placement nearly identical, as well. The footsteps were coming from the left of their current position. To the right, there should be a short hallway that dead-ended in a bathroom, with a spare room to the right. To the left of the basement door, there was another entryway leading to the kitchen, which ran the length of the back of the house.

The only thing that was different about the two houses was the garage placement. The first house had an attached garage on the left from the street-level perspective. The second had an almost identical garage, but on the right.

It was, perhaps, their one advantage.

Thinking fast, John put his lips very near Sydney’s ear, and breathed, “When I open the door I want you to turn right and head through the kitchen. There’s a door next to the refrigerator—go through it, and close and lock it behind you. You’ll be in the garage. There should be a car in there. The keys are under the visor, along with the door remote. Get out of here.” He palmed his cell phone and handed it to her. “I’ll call you when it’s over.”

“But—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted. “Don’t try to be a hero or back me up or anything. You’ll just be in the way.”

He could see the arguments in her eyes, could see the indecision, the desire to be brave warring with basic self-preservation. “Okay,” she said finally. Then she turned her face so her lips touched his. “Please be careful.”

The brief kiss shouldn’t have warmed him, shouldn’t have soothed him, shouldn’t have mattered to him. But because it did warm and soothe and matter, he drew back, going for cool and in control when his heart was hammering in his chest.

“Take care of yourself,” he said urgently. “Keep driving until I call—stay on busy roads where people can see you. If the men see you and follow you out, they’ll be more likely to hang back if there are witnesses.” He hoped. Right then, it was the best he could do.

She nodded, then stiffened.

Beyond the door, the footsteps drew closer and then hesitated, as though their owner had seen the light beneath the basement door.

John took three quick breaths, steadied himself to kill and opened the door.

He swung out and to the left, weapon at the ready, while Sydney broke right and ran for her life.

S
YDNEY LUNGED DOWN
to the hallway and through the kitchen, heart hammering in her ears and breath whistling in her lungs. Her legs shook with fear and adrenaline, but she forced them to carry her. Nearly sobbing with fear, she yanked open the door to the garage and plunged through.

She skidded to a halt.

The garage door was open. A man stood silhouetted in the opening, waiting for her.

A scream locked her throat, driving the breath from her body, and all she could think was that Tiberius had found her. He’d take her somewhere, torture her and then kill her once she gave up the password. It was over. Her mistakes had come home to damn her.

“No!” she screamed, refusing to believe, refusing to give in. She scrambled back through the kitchen door and into the house, bolting toward Sharpe as if he could help her, as if he could—

“Sydney!” a voice called from behind her. “Wait up! It’s okay!”

She’d barely processed the words when she slammed into Sharpe coming the other way.

He let out an
oof
of surprise but weathered the impact, and his arms came up to hold her tight, to keep her from running. “It’s okay,” he said, echoing the other man’s reassurance. “They’re the good guys.”

He had to repeat the words several times before they penetrated her overwrought brain. When they did, when she actually looked around herself and saw SWAT garb and badges, the fight went out of her like someone had yanked her plug, cutting off her power.

She sagged against Sharpe and burst into tears.

He caught her automatically, but there was little warmth in the embrace, as though he didn’t want the others to see, didn’t want them to guess at the relationship that might—or might not—be developing between them.

“Sorry.” She drew away, sniffing mightily and swiping at her eyes.

“You’re entitled.” But his voice and expression were cool, making him look like an entirely different person than the one she’d been with the night before. This was Special Agent Sharpe, not the man she’d cuddled with on his couch.

“Sorry,” she said again, backing off, then again, inanely, “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t even know precisely what she was apologizing for, except that all of this was her fault. Tiberius’s men had come because of her. Grace had—

“Oh, God.” Her eyes widened and she lifted her hands to her mouth to hold in the surge of emotion and bile that slapped at her the moment she thought of what had happened in the other house, all because of her.
“Grace!”

“Yeah, I know.” A flare of emotion crossed Sharpe’s face, regret and pain and anger, but instead of moving toward Sydney in comfort, he took a step away. He gestured to two of the SWAT members. “Escort her to your van, please, and keep her there until I come for her.”

“Yes, sir.” They didn’t salute, but they might as well have, because they snapped into action and hustled her down the hallway to the side door, and from there to the street, forcing her to keep her head down and move fast as they surrounded her with their bodies.

Sydney caught a glimpse of curious onlookers gathering in a range of nightwear and at-home casual clothes. Both of the safe houses were ablaze with light, and the first house bristled with the mechanics of murder—officers and evidence techs, and the other members of Sharpe’s team, their faces etched with shock and grief, horror and rage.

I did this,
Sydney thought, going numb to her soul. She hadn’t wielded the hammer that’d broken Jenny Marie’s fingers and she hadn’t shoved the young woman off an island cliff. She hadn’t pulled the trigger of the weapon that had killed Danielle and Jay. She hadn’t pumped Grace full of whatever drug had loosened her enough to provide Sharpe with the “all clear” password when the situation had been far from all clear, and she hadn’t shot Grace in the temple.

But ultimately she was responsible for all those things. Tiberius was sending her the same message he’d sent her once before:
don’t mess with me or I’ll destroy the things you care about.

She’d gotten Celeste out of his reach—God willing—but that hadn’t stopped him from killing Grace, the only woman Sydney had been friendly with since Jenny Marie’s death. Which meant anyone else she was even the slightest bit close to was in terrible danger.

“Step up,” said one of the SWAT team members, a fortysomething guy with salt-shot dark hair and kind-seeming gray eyes.

Sydney blanked. “What?”

He indicated the SWAT van. “Climb in. You’ll be safe in here while we get the scene secure.”

“Oh. Right.” She climbed aboard and found herself in a utilitarian rear compartment with sideways-facing bench seats and racks and lockers holding a variety of equipment. But as she sat on the long, uncomfortable metal bench, she realized he’d been right, whether he’d meant it that way or not. She needed to step up and start taking responsibility for her actions.

Jenny Marie had died because Sydney had used her to get information to Celeste. Danielle and Jay had died because she hadn’t been smart enough when she escaped, hadn’t been quick enough at getting them help. Grace had died because she hadn’t given the team enough to go on, enough to justify a raid and an arrest. Four people were dead, indirectly because of her.

Sydney dropped her face into her hands. It was too much to bear.

“Hey.”

Recognizing Sharpe’s voice, she looked up quickly. Despite everything else, despite the situation and the danger, and the horror she’d just endured, a little jolt of electricity sped her heartbeat at the sight of him standing in the open van doors, staring at her.

His dark hair was mussed, his jaw heavily shadowed with stubble, and he still had his discarded tie wadded up in the pocket of his tired-looking button-down shirt. Beneath the gray suit jacket she could see the straps of his shoulder holster, which he’d put back on before they left his house.

He looked sexy as hell, and lethally cold. She’d never realized before how much of a turn-on the combination could be until she’d met him. Until she’d kissed him and realized that the agent’s cool exterior camouflaged a warm, caring man. One she liked and trusted.

One she wanted. And that was a big problem, because if Tiberius had known about the safe house, and about Grace, then he knew about Sharpe, as well.

Which meant the agent was as much—if not more—of a target than she was.

I’ll kill them,
Tiberius was saying.
I’ll kill the people around you, and I’ll keep killing them until you give me the password
.

“Hey,” she said, smiling faintly. “I’m glad you—”

“I just wanted to get my phone,” he cut in. “Then I’ve got to get back to work.”

I wasn’t going to get mushy,
she wanted to say, but there were other people around, so she didn’t. Instead, picking her words carefully, she said, “Did something else happen I should know about?”

She didn’t think his banked anger was all about Grace and the attack on the safe house. Not that he didn’t have a right to be angry about those things, but this anger seemed more specific. More directed at her, like she’d done something truly terrible.

He looked at her and she nearly shivered at the contempt in his expression. “Don’t bother. The game’s up.”

Her blood chilled in her veins. “What game? What’s going on?” She reached out to touch him but he moved away. “What are you talking about?”

He looked at her long and hard, and she couldn’t read a thing from his expression. Finally, he said, “Grace managed to get a message off to Jimmy before they grabbed her. It turns out I was right. There was someone on the inside working for Tiberius. It just wasn’t who I suspected it would be.”

He pulled a folded sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his suit coat and passed it to her.

Heart thundering in her ears, Sydney unfolded the page and scanned the contents. It was an email message, sent from a Hotmail account she didn’t recognize. She recognized the destination, though. It was one of the accounts held by Tiberius Corp. One of the ones she’d used during their early negotiations about her coming to work on the island.

The message was simple and damning. It gave the location of the safe house and the positions of the surveillance teams, ending with
I trust you’ll live up to your end of the bargain
. It was signed with the same initials that were in the Hotmail address: SEW.

Sydney Ellen Westlake.

Her fingers went numb and the paper fluttered to the floor of the SWAT van. “I didn’t send that message. That isn’t my email account.”

“What was the deal?” he said, as though he hadn’t heard her. Or maybe he’d heard her and had already judged her and found her guilty. The utter disgust in his expression certainly suggested as much.

His mistrust cut Sydney straight to the quick. So much for them being on the same page regarding the attraction between them. If he was this ready to believe the worst of her, then he wasn’t the man she’d thought he was.

Anger flared. Hurt. Confusion. “Where is this coming from?” she said softly. “Why won’t you listen? I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I’m cooperating.”

“Yes, but with whom?” He retrieved the paper, reread the contents. His voice was coldly conversational when he said, “What did he promise you? Freedom? Safety? Access to your records so you could complete the cure for your sister? More money than you could spend in this lifetime?”

“He already promised me all that,” Sydney snapped, anger coming to the forefront. “And I still took my life into my own hands and escaped from the island because I refused to be involved in building a bioweapon.”

“All evidence to the contrary.” He folded the paper and returned it to his pocket.

“It’s a fake.” Her volume increased, earning curious looks from outside the van. “I’m telling you, I didn’t write the email. It’s not my account!”

“Grace checked that. The message traced back to the IP address on her laptop at the safe house.” He paused. “What did you do, wait until she was asleep and sneak access? How’d you get around the firewalls? Something your sister taught you?”

“I didn’t,” she said miserably, anger losing steam as the heartache built. “I didn’t sneak Grace’s computer to email Tiberius and I sure as hell didn’t tell him where the safe house was located. I didn’t.” Her shoulders sagged. “I swear. You have to believe me.”

But there was no belief in his cold blue eyes, no compassion. And there was no hesitation when he turned and walked away.

J
OHN STOOD ON THE SIDELINES
while the evidence techs did their thing in the kitchen where Grace had died. He knew his strengths, and crime scene reconstruction wasn’t one of them. Besides, he didn’t need to reconstruct a damn thing. He’d been there. He’d witnessed it.

He couldn’t get the sight of Grace’s face out of his head, even after the techs had bagged and tagged the body and transported it away from the scene. John had lost team members before—life-threatening danger was, unfortunately, part of the job description in the major crimes unit—but he’d never before been up close and personal with premeditated murder during the actual act.

She’d been executed not ten feet away from him, which made it impossible for him not to think about what he should’ve done differently, and there, the answer was simple.

He should never have left the scene with Sydney. He shouldn’t have taken her home, shouldn’t have spent time with her alone when he could’ve been working instead.

While he and Sydney had been cuddling on the couch, Tiberius’s hired guns had been taking out the surveillance teams—drugging them rather than killing them, thankfully—and subduing Grace. While he and Sydney had been driving back to the safe house, Tiberius’s men had bound Grace and pumped her full of God only knew what for questioning.

She would’ve held out as long as she could, and when she broke under the combination of chemicals and interrogation—maybe worse, he didn’t know yet—she would’ve given them as little as possible.

He hoped like hell she’d been too far gone to realize she’d given the countersigns that would lead him into the trap. He hated thinking that she’d died knowing she’d failed her team leader.

It’s okay, Grace,
he said inside his own skull, in case her spirit lingered nearby, or maybe because he needed to say it for himself.

Only it wasn’t okay. It was far from okay.

How had he not known Sydney was still in contact with Tiberius? He should’ve sensed that was where her head was at, should’ve known she’d try something like this.

History repeated. Back at the university where she’d worked before, she’d tried to pressure the administration to reinstate her funding by accusing her ex-lover of stealing some of her work. Combine that with her decision to work with Tiberius despite knowing at least something of what he was, and there was a pattern of unaccountability. Why had he thought she’d changed?

Because you wanted her,
his baser self said. And damn it, that part of him was right. He’d overlooked the history because after watching her with her sister, he’d convinced himself she’d done what she’d done out of love, and because she’d felt like she was out of other options. That didn’t make it right, but it was understandable to a point.

But this…this was inexcusable. Unforgivable.

“Hey.” Jimmy Oliverra came up beside John, gave him a nod and took position beside him, leaning back against the wall in a section of kitchen that’d already been processed for evidence. “They saying anything yet?”

Jimmy was the major crime unit’s secondary—and now, John supposed, their primary—computer whiz. He’d spent the most time of any of them working shoulder-to-shoulder with Grace, and the grief showed in his eyes and the deep lines beside his mouth. He was a professional, though. He’d soldier on despite—or perhaps because of—the emotions.

John knew he needed to do the same, and it rattled him to know he needed the reminder.