Viper: A Hitman Romance (13 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

JESSICA

I'm still in a daze when the police show up.  They're all drawn guns and gruff voices and blaring walkie talkies.  My kitchen floods with the high-intensity beams of a dozen flashlights.

One of the officers takes me by the arm and helps me to my feet.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" He asks.

And even though there are tears streaming from my eyes and I absolutely feel gutted, I nod.

"Can you tell me what happened here?"

My tenuous grasp on myself falters and I'm broken again.  I know I can't tell anyone what really happened.  I can't tell them about my kidnapping, I can't tell them about Ryker, the man that I helped save, only to push away.

"Let's take her down to the station, give her a chance to get it together before we get her statement," the officer says as he hands me over to another.

There's no real sympathy in his voice.  He's in charge of the scene and he's seen this kind of thing a hundred times before.

They herd me into a squad car and drive me across town.

They put me in a room.  It's got bare walls, a table, two chairs, and every so often a young officer with at least a shred of empathy checks in on me to see if I need some coffee or want a bagel.  Each time, I shake my head and I mumble thank you.

I don't know how long I've been sitting here, trying to put the pieces back together, but eventually a man in a suit that screams FBI comes in to take a seat across from me.  I think I remember him from around the office.

"Jessica Roan, I'm Agent Showalter.  They sent me to check in on you, once they found out you work for us."  He says.  And he waits for a second, as if expecting me to say 'thank you'.

When I don't, he carries on.

"You'll be held here for a while.  I'm sorry about that, but we need to lock down all the details before we can do anything.  Can you tell me what happened?"

"That man broke in, he said he was going to kill us.  I don't know what he wanted or why, but he just forced his way in…"

I stop because I hear the scratch of a pen against paper.  The guy is listening, barely.  This is just another crime to him and he's only here because someone higher up the food chain told him to show some common courtesy.

"Continue, Ms. Roan," he says.

I do my best to put into words what happened while leaving out Ryker's part in all of it.  The whole story turns into a break-in, with Connor and I fighting for our lives against a man we don't know and somehow getting the upper hand.

And as I'm making up that story, and telling it to this man again and again, while he writes down every tiny detail and then grills me on it until I even start to believe it's true, I start to sob.

I'm writing Ryker out of my life already.
 

The new truth is that Ryker and I never happened.  We never met, we never connected, we never slept together, I never met his daughter, I never helped him break into the FBI, and I never helped redeem a man who so desperately wanted to be saved.

Eventually, I can't even choke out the words to go over my statement for the fifth time and the agent across from me looks so exasperated.  All he's thinking is that he's going to be held up this late at night and probably have to display some fucking human emotions for once.

Then, his phone rings.

"Do you mind?" he asks.  And he stands up, not even waiting for my non-response before heading into the corner.

It's all a jumble of barked words from him. 
Surveillance team.  Firefight.  Fire. Probable cause.

He hangs up the call and turns to me.  It's clear from the way he looks at me that I'm an inconvenience he doesn't want to deal with.

"Ms. Roan, we'll have to finish up this another time, ok?  I'll have them send someone in to see about sorting you a place to stay — you won't be able to go home for a while, unfortunately.  It's still a crime scene."

Whatever.  I nod and that's good enough for him.  It's not like I wanted to go home anyways. 

He leaves and twenty minutes later someone asks if I want some coffee or a bagel and I say 'no'.

It's two hours, maybe three, before another man comes in.  His suit screams assistant district attorney; the bags under his eyes scream overworked; and the fresh shiner screams something else that I don't even care o fathom.

He's just another suit, just another person to hassle me about the story I can't tell, about the man I'm writing out of my life.

"Miss?  Miss?"  He seems skittish.

"What?"  I croak. 

My throat hurts.

"We're letting you go."

"Oh, so you're done making me relive the worst night of my life?"

He sighs and lightly brushes the bruise on his face.

"We're sorry for that. 
I'm
sorry for that."

"So what now?"  I ask.  Partly to him, and partly to myself. 

In the last couple days, I've compromised everything I believe in, I've committed crimes to ruin evidence against an awful criminal, all to redeem a man I hardly know and yet somehow love more than I think is possible..

You don't just go back to your normal life.

I'm changed, now. 

"I don't know, miss.  If there's friends or family you can stay with, I'd suggest giving them a call.  If you need a ride, any of the officers out there will be happy to drive you.  Look, again I want to apologize for any mistreatment you've received."

The man seems awful intent on making sure I know just how sorry he is.  It feels nice.

And then I realize I don't have anyone to call.  I'm all alone.

Numb, I follow the attorney back to the front office of the station.  He gives some man at a desk instructions to look after me and that they're to take me wherever I need to go.

He apologizes to me again.  I barely hear him, but I nod and thank him anyway.

I sit there for a while.  The office is buzzing with some drama going on someplace I don't give a damn about.  I've had enough with gunfights for the rest of my life.

Eventually I latch hold of a passing officer who looks like he might be kind and convince him to take me to the nearest motel.  I don't let go of his arm until we get there.

He's nice enough to pay for me to stay there the night.  Even walks me to the room to make sure I'm settled in.

I turn off the lights.  Then sit alone on the bed for who knows how long.  I don't feel time passing I'm so numb. 

All I want to do is forget. 

I want to forget that side of him that opened himself to me, while he taught me to smoke a cigar.  I want to forget just how badly he wanted to be a better man.  I want to forget his laugh and the smile that only let itself show when he was around me or his daughter.  I want to forget the good man I know hides behind that killer's mask.

I want to forget and I hate myself for it.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JESSICA

I'm back at work the next day.

Despite what everybody says — that I need to take some time, that I need to rest — what I really need is to lose myself.  I need that bitter black office coffee, I need the printer that jams every few hours, I need the drab fluorescent lights of my lab.

Maybe, all of that together can take me away from the pain I feel.

For an entire week, I'm first in the office and last to leave. 

I'm on a first name basis with the security guards who work the night shift — I'm leaving as they start their rounds and I'm getting in to the office just as they're heading home.

Cases fly through my lab.

My coworkers start joking that I need to go back on vacation, that I'm making them look bad.

I don't respond, I keep my head down, I keep working, and I keep trying to bury my pain in mountains of work.

Then, that all changes.

"I've got something for you, and I need a favor," my supervisor, Jeremy, says, in that tone of voice that reminds me of Bill Lumbergh from
Office Space
.

I don't answer.  I just motion for him to set the big plastic bin in front of me.

"This stuff is hot.  Top priority.  Get it done ASAP, okay?"

He trundles off to his desk to flip through his morning paper.  I've been so good about working through evidence that Jeremy's actually been able to take mornings easy for the last couple days.

Which is fine.  It means more work for me.

At first, I thought he was being a smartass with his remark about how hot this stuff is. 

The bin is stuffed to the gills with plastic bags and half the stuff here looks like it's been thrown on the grill.

Charred papers, shell casings, a scorched leather glove, a whole boatload of odds and ends that tell me whoever picked through this crime scene went over it with a fine-toothed comb.  And, at the bottom of the bin, there's one little flash drive.

My stomach twists itself into a knot.

I recognize that drive.

"Jeremy, where is this stuff from?"

He looks up at me from his paper.

"Seriously?  Have you been living in a hole in the ground?"

His sarcasm dies on his lips when he sees how nauseous and wrecked I look.

"Sorry, Jessica."  His voice softens.  "It's from Michael Drax's mansion.  A few nights back, someone tried to burn that place to the ground.  Snuck in, started the bonfire of the year, and even put a slug in Drax.  The Bureau was watching Drax's home and moved in once the shots broke out.  It was a
big deal."

He points to the box.  "Those were some of the things we picked out of the wreckage.  Well, the better stuff.  So, yeah, sort through it and let me know what you turn up.  And hurry, please."

"Oh.  How is that investigation going, by the way?" I'm trying my best to sound casual. 

Most of that case is taking place in the upper ranks, and news from that high up doesn't filter down to my part of the lab.

I get a weary look from Jeremy. 

"Not so great.  Things have hit a wall.  He's one of those guys you know is dirty, I mean, hell, you just have to look at him to get that.  But he's coming up squeaky clean so far.  So, yeah, give this stuff extra care, alright?"

I nod.  I'll take my time.

While trying not to let on how scared seeing that drive makes me feel.

I know what's on it.  And I know that I'm going to have to make a choice.

The rest of the day goes by with me doing everything I can except opening that little plastic bag holding the flash drive.  I log shell casings for several different guns.  Those burnt papers get cleaned and analyzed and I do everything I can to recover what little secrets I can from their ashes. 

And the leather glove gets tested every which way for DNA and fingerprints and turns up nothing.

Thank god
.  Because I recognize the glove as well.

The day passes.  Jeremy says goodnight and something about not staying too late, even though I know he doesn't mean it. I mumble something back to him.

I'm the last one in the office. 
Finally
.

The contents of this tiny little bag chill me to my bones.  At least I'm not numb anymore.

I plug it in, and my fingers pull out of it a story that I wish I'd never read.  No wonder Michael Drax wants this stuff hidden.  It makes me nauseous just reading half the stuff he's involved in.

I look up from my screen, peering out through the windows of the lab to scan the office again.

I need to be sure I'm alone.

There's a reason this drive turned up in the evidence collected from Drax's.  Ryker knew the man was under investigation by the Bureau, Ryker knew that anything important would be snatched up by the FBI and brought right here to my lab, to my desk.

It's a message from him.

It's an out.  It has to be.

Even though he's gone from my life, even though he's off on the other side of the country having left this all behind, he's sending me a message.  He still cares.  He was paid a fortune to switch this drive out, and as long as his mission stays accomplished, he'll stay anonymous and of Drax's radar. 

But all I have to do to put Drax away — to get rid of the man who wants me dead — is turn this drive in.

All I have to do is put at risk a man I care about more than I thought possible.

I'm sick again.  Sick and afraid and angry.

Sobs rack my body and it feels like my ribcage is trying to crush my heart.

What kind of choice is this?

Do I protect myself?  Or do I log all the evidence from this drive and pull Ryker right back into the violent world risked everything to leave behind?

I put my head down against the desk and every bit of pain and sorrow and heartbreak that I've been trying to hold back for the past week comes heaving to the surface.

I feel like I'm stuck. 

I'm stuck between an uncertain fear that Michael Drax may send someone again, and the certainty that if I turn this flash drive in, I'll be pulling Ryker back into a world he's been fighting to escape.  I'll be tearing him away from the daughter he's sacrificed everything for.

It takes forever before I'm able to sit up and do the thing I know I have to do. 

All my life, I've been sacrificing to protect the people that I care about and today is no different.  Even if it means putting myself at risk.  Even if it means compromising my values. 

With the stroke of a key, I erase the drive.

* * * * *

Like every other day, I'm first in the office by a long shot.  But today, I get more of a concerned greeting from the night security guard.  One of them even offers me his morning donut. 

I was at work much later than usual last night, and the bags under my eyes and my generally red and puffy face probably don't help to give him the impression that I've got my shit together.

"Good morning, Jessica.  How did everything go with those Drax files?  You've got good news for me, I hope," Jeremy says to me first thing.

He hasn't even sat down yet.  He's eager.  He wants to nail Drax to the wall.

It's been an hour since I've got here and I've been pacing the whole time.

Last night, after I erased the drive, I went out to the store and bought a bottle of scotch.  One of the same kinds I remember drinking with Ryker.  The same kind we had before we fucked on his couch and then in his bedroom, where he cuffed me to the headboard and flipped my world upside down with his tongue.  But something about it didn't taste right.  It was bitter and I realized that those things that I thought would remind me of him were going to do more harm than good.

I drank most of it anyways.  And when I thought I'd filled myself with enough courage, I took out my phone and sent a text to that emergency number he'd given me a week ago.

It was just a short text. 
We found the flash drive.  I erased it.  You're safe.  I miss you.

I got a reply right away.

We're sorry, but the number you're trying to reach has been disconnected.

Ryker Blackwood is well and truly gone.

I didn't sleep after that.  And I'm not proud of how much I cried reading his text.  But, I am proud of myself for not breaking my phone.  And for finally accepting the truth.

I can't just spend my nights pining away for a man who upended my life. 

I can't go around trying to recapture the feelings that I felt for that scotch-drinking man who would eat like a dumpster if left to his own devices. 

He's gone.  He's taken to the wind like ashes tipped from the end of a cigar.

I look over at Jeremy, who's still watching me.

Normally, a delay like this leads to him prodding me with some sort of sarcastic remark.  But I think even he can see on my face that I'm beyond my breaking point.

"Jeremy, there wasn't anything on the drive.  The fire got it pretty bad."

I lie, and I feel horrible about it, even though it's the right thing to do.

"Shit," he says.  "I was really hoping for something there.  I don't want to let scum like Michael Drax just walk away."

I feel the same way.  But that's not what I want to talk to him about this morning.  That's not why I've been pacing and crying and feeling my stomach tie itself into enough knots that even an Eagle Scout couldn't get it undone.

"Jeremy, I quit."