The Kill Shot (23 page)

“On the post? Are you sure?”

“No, I'm not sure at all. Which is why we have to talk about it!”

I was shouting now, which was a bad idea. So I turned on my heel to return to the restaurant. But Barrett grasped my good shoulder.

When I turned, trembling with rage, he caught a lock that had strayed from my ponytail and smoothed it behind my ear. “Maybe Spencer-Dean just wants to know you're all right.”

It was a kind thing to say. But it was a chance we couldn't take. Not with lives at stake.

“No, updates are what phones are for. And he stopped calling me once we got back from Culpeper.”

“Well, there's one more explanation. Maybe he's not gunning for anyone. Maybe he's looking for information because maybe he's gone into business on his own—”

“—and is selling secrets to the highest bidder. Like rogue states, corporate raiders, or enemy combatants?”

I said it about my old friend so Barrett wouldn't have to. But the idea made my heart ache. Because it was entirely possible.

If Philip were selling secrets, it would explain so much. Like why he'd wanted in on my every move through London. He hadn't stuck to my side for love.

He'd wanted money.

That realization hurt worse than anything. Because it meant if any of this was true, Philip was a traitor. He'd betrayed his own country.

And he'd betrayed me.

Whatever it was Philip wanted, the possibility that I'd seen him this morning was a game changer. Whether he'd come to the States simply to get information—or whether he'd come to kill us—we were easy pickings while we hung out in public at Poppie's. So I wasn't surprised when Barrett ordered a withdrawal. He did it discreetly, with a word to the agent in charge and a couple of cell phone calls. Moments later, the Oujdads, Katie, Barrett, and I were wishing the physicists farewell and clambering into our long line of black SUVs under the watchful eyes of our FBI agents.

From there, we headed back to the only place that offered us a modicum of safety.

We headed back to the Hooch.

Barrett again rode in my Explorer and spent most of the journey with his phone to his ear. From the backseat, I gathered he'd requested a full sweep of the inn. And from what I could tell, Lieutenant Wright headed up the search himself.

Wright met us in the lobby when we arrived. So did a plethora of additional agents and even military police. All were armed to the teeth.

If the Oujdads thought this odd, they didn't say. Katie, on the other hand, got spooked. She stuck to me like glue when Wright and the rest herded us onto the elevator.

When the doors powered shut, her cell phone began to jangle in her pocket.

For her sake, I hoped it was her sister on the other end of the connection. She'd waited so long to hear from her. But Katie wasn't in a hurry to find out.

She let her phone ring a second time.

She let it ring a third.

Maybe she was reluctant to answer it for fear of being rude to me, Ikaat, and half the security forces on the Department of Defense payroll who were riding the elevator with us. So she let her phone continue to ring until we reached our floor. Or maybe she was too polite to share her relief in finally hearing her sister's voice. Then she bolted from the elevator, and when the door to her room closed behind her, I heard her trembling voice answer the call at last.

“Hello? Hello…No, I'm here…I just want to talk to my…”

In the corridor, outside their adjoining rooms, Ikaat and her father wished me good night. Barrett and Wright walked me to my room. They even came inside with me.

“We've got federal agents in the stairwells,” Wright said, speaking freely now that we were away from the others. “They'll stay there all night. We've got one hundred percent ID check on anyone coming into the Hooch. Plus, we've got extra foot patrols outside the building. If this Brit is even on the post, he's not getting in here. You're safe twenty-four/seven.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That's good to know.”

And it was. I still wasn't convinced I'd seen Philip standing on that street corner. Or that he'd willingly hurt any of us. But there was more than my opinion at stake. And I didn't want an error in my judgment to cost Katie, Ikaat, or Armand their lives.

Wright took his leave of us and headed out to do his job.

That left Barrett and me alone together.

I put some space between us. My heart was sore with the prospect that Philip had sold me out and I didn't want to explain that to Barrett. To keep busy, I began rearranging the coral and turquoise throw pillows on the sofa.

Barrett said, “My room's across the hall from yours, but I doubt I'll be in it much. I'm going to make my own sweep of the building and I'll probably spend most of the night downstairs, checking up on Wright, or on the phone with Roger Lind.”

I nodded, but that was all the response I could manage.

Barrett crossed the room to me. He tugged the cushion I was fussing with from my hand and tossed it to the other end of the couch. “You know, Spencer-Dean might have a rotten motive for being in the country, but he does care about you, Jamie. When he punched me, he wasn't faking it.”

“You're telling me another man's gaga over me? That's some sweet talk, Barrett.”

“It's also the truth.”

I didn't know what to say. In my experience, the truth was often in short supply. People lied to private investigators all the time. Even some of my clients bent the truth when talking with me. They usually called it tact, but really, those fibs were rarely tactful. And then there was my father. For him, the truth—and the withholding of truth—were just two more weapons in his arsenal.

But Barrett laid his weapons down every time he came to me.

And that, I was finding, meant I didn't need defenses.

“Hey,” Barrett said, brushing a fingertip over the sapphire in the hollow of my throat. “Don't forget your job in all this.”

“What's that?”

“You've got to relax and get some rest, or that arm of yours isn't going to get better.”

Well, relaxing was easier said than done.

“You've got your cell phone?”

I nodded, brandished the device in the gorgeous case Philip had bought me.

“If you need me,” Barrett said, “call me.”

But I was a big girl.

And
need
and
want
were two very different things.

“I'll be fine, Barrett. I won't need to call.”

“Call me anyway.” He winked.

And then he was gone.

I tried to take Barrett's advice. I tried to relax. I really did.

I spent a twitchy nineteen minutes trying to power down in front of the TV. Every movie piped into the room, though, was stupid. I flipped through the day's
USA Today,
but I couldn't focus long enough to read even the shortest article.

With one hand, I balled up the paper as best I could. I slam-dunked it in the wastepaper basket. That's when I could've sworn I heard Katie crying in our connecting bath.

I tapped on the door. “Katie? Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, everything's fine.”

She fired up the shower and I shook my head. It seemed I just couldn't get anything right. Katie was a-okay, one of my oldest friends was a traitor, and my father had hired me only so he could hang me out to dry. At least Barrett was a stand-up guy. Although I'd doubted him in London, my guilty conscience reminded me.

Now, I'd follow his advice, I decided, and relax if it killed me.

I'd also follow Katie's example.

I'd indulge in a hot shower.

While I waited my turn, I got undressed, attempted to pile my hair on top of my head, and gathered my carnation-pink satin robe around me. I slid my little .22 under my pillow, just to keep it out of sight in case Ikaat stopped by. It wasn't the most inventive of hiding places, but no one would really be looking for it.

By then, Katie had vacated the bathroom. I entered. And I chided myself for not doing so sooner.

I'd always been a sucker for a posh powder room—and this room was posh perfection. Everything was the clean green of travertine and white marble. Double sinks stood on sculpted pedestals. And the Ford Motor Company made cars smaller than the shower stall. It featured teak benches and multiple German-engineered showerheads. They were the kind that could hit you with six nozzles at once. Or, with the flip of a switch, pump steam into the stall for a sauna.

But the feature that captured my attention and wouldn't let go was the deep, double tub—complete with jets. Set apart from the rest of the room by gorgeous Greek columns, it had its own crystal chandelier that could be dimmed to send little rainbows around its alcove. A tray stood by bearing all kinds of exotic oils, scented salts, and better yet—bubble bath. I could soak in a tub like that forever. But first, I needed to be a good roommate.

I tapped on the door that communicated with Katie's room.

“Katie, if you don't need the bathroom for a while, I'm going to take a long, hot bath.”

But Katie didn't reply.

Figuring she'd gone to bed, I tiptoed across the tile and turned on the taps.

The sound of running water soothed my soul as it splashed into the tub. I added a generous pour of bubble bath to the mix. Instantly, the entire room smelled like a rose garden. With a stack of thick, white towels positioned on the edge of the bath to keep my cast comfortable and dry, I eased into the perfumed water. And with a quick hit to a stainless-steel button, the jets whirred to life.

I closed my eyes, surrendered to the bubbles. The rumbling of the spa's motor could've drowned out the din of an all-brass marching band. It certainly canceled out the noise in my own head, which was a good thing. I didn't want to think about Philip. I didn't want to think about my father. And given the circumstances, it probably wasn't a good idea to let myself think about Barrett.

I'd just begun to relax when the door from my room burst open. Barrett charged across the green marble floor. He had a gun in his hand.

“Barrett! What do you think you're doing?”

But Barrett ignored me. He flung open the door to Katie's room, disappeared inside. I pounded the jets' stop button with the heel of my hand.

In the sudden silence, Barrett returned, raking a hand through his blond hair. “You'd better come see this.”

I wasn't going to come see anything. Not while I was stark naked and soaking wet. My condition must've finally dawned on Barrett. He eyed the surface of the bath water—and the rapidly disappearing bubbles.

I scooped as much foam to my chest as I could.

And that wasn't saying much.

“Could you hand me something to put on?”

Barrett spotted my satin dressing gown slung over the slipper chair at the vanity. When he picked it up, the fabric spilled over his hand like champagne. His eyes never left mine as he handed it to me.

But his fingers brushed mine as he released it.

“I could use a little privacy,” I told him.

Barrett nodded.

But he didn't move.

“Adam, are you going to give me a minute, or do you want me to get dressed underwater?”

A delicious blush rushed up Barrett's neck. It infused his cheekbones, rich and red. But instead of leaving, he turned his back to me.

I rose from the bathwater like a furious Aphrodite from the sea. Water sluiced from my skin like torrential rain. Shivering in the comparative chill of the room, I whipped the robe around me, thrust my arms deep into the sleeves, and cinched the slippery belt at my waist.

But that was a mistake.

Because I hadn't toweled off. So the satin, dark and wet, molded to every curve of my body. I gathered the shawl collar to my throat, crossed my arms over my chest.

“You can turn around now.”

Barrett did. His attention swept over me in the clinging satin before he dragged his gaze away. I felt hot all over. And I didn't think I was the only one.

Barrett huffed out a breath like a stallion banished from the barn. “Follow me.”

He pushed open the door to Katie's room.

“Don't come in,” he warned.

Broken glass crunched under Barrett's boot and would've torn my bare feet to shreds.

Every mirror, every lamp, and every electronic device had been smashed against the terra-cotta tiles. The drapes had been torn from the windows. Even the stuffing had been pulled from the sofa. So many feathers had been beaten from the bedding, it looked as if someone had butchered a goose.

“This isn't all,” Barrett said.

I followed him through the bath again—and into my room.

There, the destruction was worse.

While the sound of the tub's jets had rumbled in my ears, someone had entered my room and—with a blade of some kind—had sliced through every upholstered piece in the place. An end table and desk chair lay in splinters. Beneath it all, however, I thought I could detect the evidence of a search. The vandal had spilled the contents of the end-table drawer and spread them out on the floor before wrecking the furniture. That meant the demolition was a cover-up.

And I thought I knew who was doing the covering.

“Why would Philip do a thing like this?”

Too late, I heard the fury in my voice. And the sorrow. And the guilt.

Barrett heard all these things, too.

He wrapped me in his arms.

“Damn it, Adam, I trusted him.”

“I know, honey.”

“We're on a secret military installation,” I raged. “How'd he even find us?”

“I don't know. But I intend to ask him when I find him.”

“Well, he won't like the way I'd phrase the question, so he'd better hope you find him first.”

Barrett chuckled. His hands were warm through the thin, damp satin. And when he traced a line down my spine, I began to tremble inside and out. For six days, my loyalties had been pushed one way, then pulled another. And I'd had enough.

Now, as Barrett's palm cruised along my shoulder, I made a decision. I knew what I wanted. I knew who I wanted. So when Barrett's head dipped to mine, I lifted my face to his. But through the slippery fabric of my robe, his fingers found the welt where Katie had stabbed me with her pen—and that broke the spell.

“What's this?” he asked.

I explained what had happened. “I should've had the doctors at Fort Belvoir look at it. It's been driving me bats.”

“Let me see.”

Without waiting for permission, Barrett slipped the satin collar of my dressing gown off the point of my shoulder. In a last-ditch effort at modesty, I grabbed the lapels with my good hand. But at that moment, Barrett wasn't interested in anything more than the bump that bothered me like a bug bite.

His fingertips brushed my bare skin.

He said, “I don't think you've got an infection. I think you've got a subcutaneous tracking device.”

His announcement hit me like a bucket of ice water.

“What? Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be without an X-ray, but—”

“Get it out.”

“I'll call a medic.”

I, however, couldn't bear the thought of waiting for a medic. I couldn't bear the thought of my own body sending signals about my whereabouts. More than that, I couldn't bear the thought of a foreign object planted under my skin.