A sudden jolt of attraction mixed with a slight twinge of guilt. That’s what Elizabeth felt when she originally met agent Danny Sullivan.
It was the day after the attempted Times Square bombing, the entire JTTF building was in full panic mode, and yet the first thought to cross her mind while shaking his hand was that he was a really good-looking guy. If Ryan Gosling had a brother, she thought to herself. She couldn’t help it. She was only human, and the thought was like a doctor’s tap to the knee. Pure reflex.
They’d become friendly as fellow agents but never outwardly flirted, which in a way was a form of flirtation because—as their boss, Evan Pritchard, had picked up on—they certainly were attracted to each other. There were the occasional stealth glances during group briefings and staff meetings, and if Elizabeth leaned a little to her left while sitting behind her desk, she could see Danny at his desk. His profile, at least. She liked his high cheekbones.
She didn’t know much more about him beyond what would normally be on his résumé. That and a few other tidbits picked up from conversations with other agents. Danny was in his midthirties and graduated from Middlebury, where he played hockey; he joined the FBI after deciding that the analyst training program at First Boston wasn’t for him. Nor was any other career in finance. He certainly had the head for it. Just not the heart.
That was maybe the most attractive thing about him, as far as Elizabeth was concerned. His desire to make a difference. Every agent possessed that to some degree, but Danny seemed to embody it. Except not loudly. He had this undercurrent of determination, an aura about him. Those who worked with him always seemed to pick up their game. It was infectious.
All the more reason why Elizabeth was dreading his call. She was sure it was coming. She’d let him down.
Well, technically, Dylan had let both of them down. Dylan’s call was why she knew Danny’s was only a matter of time.
“Where are you?” she’d asked Dylan, standing outside of the Moncler boutique in SoHo. She needed a new winter coat, a would-be Christmas gift to herself. She pressed the phone harder against her ear. She could hear a whooshing sound. Movement. “Are you in a car?”
“Yeah.”
If he was doing the driving, he was driving fast. “Where are you going?”
“I’m not telling you,” said Dylan.
“What? Why not?”
“Because whoever did you the favor and arranged that meeting with Grigoryev is going to be asking you where I am. This way you won’t have to lie. You don’t know.”
“Shit,” said Elizabeth.
“Yeah, it didn’t go so well.”
Dylan quickly told her what happened. “So the girl’s with you?” she asked.
“Best if I don’t tell you that, either.” But that was as good as a yes. “I’m going to need another favor,” he said.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“If only I were. Who’s your friend who arranged the meeting?”
“That’s not fair, Dylan. You know it’s not.”
“What I know—what I need to know—is how many people want the girl dead right now. Is it just Grigoryev?”
“Are you really asking me that? Who do you think my friends are?”
“Grigoryev is more valuable to the Bureau than the girl. That’s all I’m saying.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Think about it. The only person Grigoryev wants to kill more than the girl right now is you.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Dylan. “I’ll be fine.”
“No you won’t.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. But it sounded pretty good, didn’t it?”