I’m still grinning when Jack approaches, but my smile fades when I see the way he’s rubbing his temples. Peter’s hand rests on my shoulder, and I slip out from under his touch, then approach Jack, lightly brushing his arm as I try to read the expression in his eyes. “Are you okay?”
He gives a little half-shake of his head, his expression one of mild annoyance. Not at me, I don’t think, but at his own discomfort. “I think it’s the damn lights. They started flashing, and it’s like needles to my eyes.”
“You’re not prone to migraines,” I say.
“Aren’t I?”
I bite back a wince, realizing how close I came to giving away too much. But it’s reasonable that I’d know if my partner suffered from migraines. Still, I need to be more careful.
Now, though, I just shrug. “Not that I’ve seen before.”
“Probably a symptom,” he says. “My already battered brain doesn’t like the crazy disco lights.”
“Trust me,” I say dryly. “It’s not just you. Welcome to Friday at a club.” I sweep my arm out to encompass the entire room, noticing as I do that Cerise has moved a few feet away and is laughing with a group of women I’ve never met before.
“Speaking of welcome,” Peter says, waving for Jack’s attention. “It’s great to see you again, M—”
“Jack,” I say firmly, speaking loudly on top of Peter before he can announce Mason’s real name. “Jack, this is Peter.”
“Am I missing the joke?” Peter asks, looking between the two of us.
“Jack’s having a little trouble with his memory.”
“Which is the polite way of saying that I’m a blank slate,” he puts in. “And we’re sharing this information why?”
“It’s okay. Peter and I worked together for about a year in Washington before I moved over to the SOC.”
“Obviously, I don’t remember you,” Jack says. “Sorry about that.”
Peter shakes his head. “No worries. I would say your little problem is an occupational hazard, but the truth is that I haven’t seen this before. Heard of it. But I always assumed the stories were urban legend.”
“A story they tell about bad little agents?” Jack quips, making Peter laugh.
“Is that what you were?”
Jack shrugs. “How the hell do I know?”
Peter chuckles. “I see you kept your sense of humor.”
“Did we work together, too?”
Peter shakes his head. “No. We only met the one time when you two got m—”
“Medals of commendation,” I interrupt, shooting Peter a sharp glance, in response to which he looks sufficiently contrite. We don’t actually have any medals of commendation, and even if we did I don’t know why Peter would have come to the ceremony. But thankfully Jack doesn’t seem interested in the point. Or in Peter or I for that matter. On the contrary, he’s looking at something across the room, his brow furrowed as if in confusion.
“The lights still?” There’s no laser light show at the moment, but there is a colorful disco ball that’s casting moving circles of light on the walls and floor.
“Mind if I borrow Denise for a second?” Jack says, to which Peter shrugs and says he’ll go freshen his drink.
“What’s going on?” I ask, waving off Cass who’s started to head in our direction.
“I’m not sure.” He nods toward the dance floor. “When the lights started, I thought I saw…”
“What?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. A face.”
“A face?”
He meets my eyes. “A face.”
“We’re in a club. There are a lot of faces.”
“I don’t know why it struck me. I can’t even find it again in the crowd. I’m not even sure if it was a man or a woman, much less real. Maybe it was just a shadow. A mirage in the dark.”
“But you don’t think so.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“I think it’s a memory. I think there’s someone here with us that I remember. Or that my mind is trying to remember.”
“From your past? Or from your mission?” I’m assuming the latter. And I’m trying not to let my feelings get hurt because he’s semi-remembered a shadowy face before he remembered his wife.
“From my torture,” he says flatly. “I saw that face, and my blood ran cold.”
My hurt feelings are pushed away by guilt, and I take his hand. “We’ll find him. We’ll find him,” I repeat, “and we’ll get some answers.”
“I’m going to make a few rounds through the club, then I’m going to head back to Liam’s. I know tomorrow’s Saturday, but I’d like to work. Maybe go over some of our old files. See if that triggers any new memories. Okay?”
“Of course. Meet you in the office around ten?”
“I’ll be there,” he says, then slips into the dark.
I stand there for a moment, letting the beat of the music pound through me. I want to follow him. I want to take his shoulders and look into his eyes and tell him everything.
But I can’t. And I hate how impotent I feel.
I turn with a sigh, intending to go to the bar for a tonic and lime. Instead, I find Peter behind me. “You okay?”
“Sure. Where’s Cerise?”
“Ladies’ room.” He holds out his hand. “Dance?”
I shake my head. “Not in the mood.”
“A pity. I am.”
“I’m sure Cerise will be up for it when she gets back. I like her a lot,” I tell Peter. “But she doesn’t seem to be your type.”
“That’s because you were always my type.”
I mentally kick myself. I should never have opened that door. Peter and I worked in the same field office and got along great. But the times we partnered for a mission together, I was never at my best. I could feel the attraction rolling off him. And while Mason’s interest in me never got in the way of our work, it was a distraction with Peter. The difference, of course, was that I wasn’t in love with Peter, and so I didn’t trust him the way you trust a true partner. And Mason always was a true partner, even before we became involved.
“Peter…”
He holds his hands out in surrender. “I know. Just friends. Don’t worry. I’m over you. I’m just stating a fact. And Cerise is a doll. I really do adore her.”
“I’m glad to hear it. She’s not just a client. She’s a friend.”
“So why aren’t you telling him the truth?”
It’s a total flip in the conversation, but I follow his thread easily. “You know I can’t give you details. Let’s just say it’s protocol.”
He nods, then steps back, his eyes looking me up and down. I’m wearing jeans and a plain white tank top, and the heat in Peter’s eyes is the kind I want to see in Jack’s.
His gaze stops at my wrist, where Mason’s name has been recently inked. “Who does he think that is?”
I draw in a shaky breath. “My husband. Who may or may not be dead.”
“Makes it rough for you, doesn’t it?”
This time, I can’t follow his thoughts, because everything about my life and Mason is rough right now. “What do you mean?”
“I saw the way he looked at you. Guy’s hot for you. And looks to me like you want him, too.”
I swallow. “Where are you going with this?”
“Same place you are—nowhere. Because you’re too honorable a woman to cheat on your husband. Which means that you can’t cheat with your husband. No matter how much you want to.” He’s got about six inches on me, and he uses the tip of his finger to tilt my chin up. He locks his gaze with mine and flashes a wicked grin. “Or are you planning to fuck him anyway?”
With effort, I resist the urge to reach up and slap his face. Instead, I say, “This is why you and I never got together. I prefer my men with a bit of character.”
“What can I say? You bring out the worst in me.”
“Try to keep it inside,” I say, then turn and walk away. I don’t see Quince or Eliza, but Cass is laughing with a cute blonde by the bar. I catch her eye, then point toward the door. She lifts her hand to her ear in a “call me” gesture, and I nod. I’ll give her a buzz tomorrow. Right now, I’m heading home.
On the sidewalk, I lean against a signpost as I tap my phone and order an Uber. It’s five minutes away, and I take a moment to close my eyes, draw a breath, and enjoy the sounds of the night.
The cool steel of a blade presses against my throat and my eyes fly open. I stay perfectly still, trying not to breathe, and cursing myself for inexplicably dropping my guard.
Whoever is holding the knife is behind me. About my height, and his hand doesn’t shake, so it’s clear he knows how to handle a knife.
When he leans in close to my ear, I catch the smell of jalapeños and tequila, and I make a note to have one of the tech team pull the receipts from Westerfield’s and use the security feed to match them with patrons. Maybe I’ll get lucky.
“I’m not the only one who can get to you,” the man whispers. “Keep that in mind. Tell him he needs to remember. If he wants you to stay safe—to stay alive—he needs to give back what he took. Tell him.”
“Who?”
“Cunt,” he says, and I gasp as the knife presses harder. There will be a thin line of blood on my neck, I’m certain of it. “You know who.” But then, as if he wants to be sure there’s no confusion, he whispers, “Mason Walker. You tell him. You tell him you’re a dead woman walking unless he comes through.”
Something hard smacks my head, knocking me forward at the same time he yanks the knife away. An instant later, he shoves the back of my neck and I fall to my knees as a black Lexus squeals to a halt, and he turns just enough for me to see greasy hair, bushy eyebrows, and a bulbous nose. Then he leaps in. The car races away down Sunset Boulevard, the Arkansas plate undoubtedly stolen.
I stumble to my feet at the same time my Uber arrives, and I climb in, draw a breath, and pull out my phone.