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Alina came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around herself and glanced at the bed. Damon was sitting up, propped against the pillows, his phone in his hand.
“You’re awake,” she said, going over to the dresser and opening a drawer. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” he said, his eyes dropping to her long legs. His lips curved wickedly. “If you come over here, I’ll show you.”
Alina flashed a grin over her shoulder and closed the drawer, turning to go into the walk-in closet.
“If I go over there, we’ll never get to work.”
Damon grinned and swung his legs out of bed, standing and stretching. His ribs were sore and he grimaced at the flash of pain.
“How’s your side?” he asked, walking over to the closet.
The towel was on the floor and Alina was dressed in loose, black cargo pants. She’d just finished pulling on a tank top when he leaned against the door frame.
“It’s fine,” she answered shortly, not meeting his gaze.
Damon frowned, his brows snapping together in suspicion.
“Show me.”
She looked at him in exasperation and bent to scoop up the towel.
“Don’t be silly,” she muttered, dropping the towel into the hamper and pushing past him. “It’s nothing.”
He grabbed her wrist swiftly and pulled her back to him.
“Then humor me.”
Brown eyes met blue and she glared at him. He just smiled at her maddeningly.
“Either you do it or I do, sweetheart.”
Alina sighed loudly and pulled up her shirt. Damon raised an eyebrow and looked at her side. When he raised his eyes again, the laughter was gone.
“You got stitches.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It was infected,” she said, lowering her shirt. “It got beyond what I could treat. I had to get it cleaned out.”
He frowned and followed her into the bedroom, watching as she went over to the bedside table and picked up her Ruger, slipping it into her back holster.
“How bad was it?”
Alina glanced at him and dropped her gaze again.
“It was bad,” she admitted. “I left a piece of metal in there when I pulled the slug out.”
“What did you tell the ER?”
“I didn’t go to the ER. I went to a private doctor. I told him I was hunting and someone caught me by accident.”
Damon sighed and went over to her, slipping his arms around her waist.
“We’re a hot mess, you and I. We’re the walking wounded.”
She nodded and touched the stitched up wound on his side. The ribs above the puckered skin had turned a lovely shade of deep purple and the swelling was noticeable. Suddenly Alina was overwhelmed by a crushing feeling of defeat. Raising her eyes to his, she lifted her other hand to the side of his face.
“How much longer do you think we can hold out?” she whispered. “How much more can we take?”
Damon stared back at her steadily.
“As long, and as much as it takes. We’ll do what needs to be done.”
He lowered his lips to hers, and Alina leaned into him. He was right. They would do what needed to be done, and they would do it together.
Blake nodded in greeting to the agent outside Stephanie's door.
“Morning, Lou,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Can’t complain, and it wouldn’t do much good if I did.”
Blake grinned.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
He walked into the room and raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sight of Michael and Angela.
“What are you guys doing here?” he asked. “I thought you were on lockdown.”
“Not anymore,” said Angela cheerfully from the chair next to Stephanie's bed. “It’s all over!”
“Trent tried to get to Angela again yesterday,” Stephanie said. “He ran into...”
Her voice suddenly trailed off and she looked at Michael in sudden confusion.
“A friend of Alina’s,” he finished smoothly. “He helped keep an eye on things while I was in DC.”
Blake raised an eyebrow and looked from Stephanie to Michael to Angela.
“A friend?” he repeated.
“They’ve known each other since boot camp,” Angela offered, blissfully unaware that Damon’s existence was classified information. “They’re more than just friends. They just won’t accept it.”
Blake’s other eyebrow joined the first and he looked at Michael.
“Is that so?” he drawled. “Your girlfriend cheating on you, Mike?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Michael continued the old argument good-naturedly.
“Does he have a name, this friend?” asked Blake.
“Damon,” Angela answered before either of the others.
“Damon, huh?” Blake looked at Stephanie. “Would that be the same Damon who took care of the driver in Washington a couple weeks ago?”
She had the grace to look uncomfortable.
“Yes.”
“So what happened yesterday?” Blake asked, returning to the main topic and dropping the subject for the time being.
“Trent showed up and Damon intercepted him,” said Michael. “When I got back, he was still unconscious. I took him to the field office in the city and spent most of the night interrogating him.”
“And?”
“He broke around three in the morning. He confessed to killing all four women in Florida, plus three more no one knew about. Angela became a target when he met her in Miami.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“My thoughts exactly,” Stephanie agreed. “Michael transferred him to us this morning. We’ll send him down to the Miami office, and he’ll face trial there.”
Blake looked across Stephanie's bed to Angela.
“You must be relieved.”
“Yes. Michael’s taking me back to my house. We just stopped here to tell Stephanie everything. It’s been an insane couple of days. I’m looking forward to getting my cat home and just trying to get back to normal.”
“I bet,” he murmured.
“What time is your attorney coming in?” Stephanie asked, looking up at him.
Blake grinned.
“He’s not. He called me an hour ago. All charges were dropped. The woman said she got me confused with someone else.”
Stephanie's face lit up.
“Oh, thank God! That’s wonderful!”
Blake looked at Michael.
“I’m not sure it’s God I have to thank,” he said, his eyes meeting Michael’s. “What happened in DC yesterday?”
Michael shrugged.
“I may or may not have stumbled across some information involving Ms. Ricci and Senator Carmichael.”
Blake’s mouth dropped open.
“What?!”
Michael nodded.
“Carmichael has been blackmailing her for over a year. I managed to convince her it was in her best interest to drop the charges and let me handle Carmichael.”
Blake stared at him.
“You mean to tell me that Carmichael was behind this?” he demanded. “He made her press the charges?”
“Yes.”
“Why? What does he have against me? I’ve never even met the man!”
“You’re investigating the cartel,” Michael said. “I found a connection between Dominic DiBarcoli and Carmichael. If you get hold of one of the cartel, I think they’ll give up Carmichael’s involvement in the smuggling network you’ve been after.”
Blake cursed under his breath.
“I had a trap set up for one last week,” he breathed. “He didn’t show, and a few days later his body floated up near Cuba.”
“You were getting close,” Stephanie said thoughtfully. “So he came after you. That’s why everything was designed to discredit you. If you tried to pin anything on him, it would be the word of a senator against a disgraced agent.”
Blake looked across the room at Michael.
“I owe you one, brother. Thank you.”
Michael smiled and stood up.
“No need to thank me, and no need to owe me. We’ve been through enough together. If we can’t watch each other’s backs, what good was it?” He looked down at Angela. “You ready to get going?”
She nodded and stood up.
“Yeah. I don’t want to leave Annabelle in the truck much longer.” Angela bent down to hug Stephanie. “I’ll stop by tomorrow. Any word on when you’re getting out of here?”
“Not yet,” Stephanie said with a grimace. “They’re still pumping antibiotics into me. Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own at the house?”
“I’ll be fine,” Angela assured her. “I feel really good about it today. I just want to get back into a normal routine as soon as possible. I’m going to work from home for a couple days while I’m on these pain killers.”
Stephanie nodded.
“If you need me, call.”
“Will do.”
Blake watched as Michael and Angela departed, then moved over to the chair she’d vacated.
“Have you heard from your boss?”
“Not yet. I expect they’ll still have to do an internal investigation, but without the charges, I don’t see it going anywhere.” Blake looked at her. “What did the doc say?”
“My numbers still aren’t where he wants them. So another day of the antibiotics, and then more blood work. Now that Trent’s taken care of, I have nothing to work on, and nothing to keep me busy. If they keep me much longer, I’ll go crazy.”
Blake grinned.
“Well, if you’re looking for something to keep busy, you can always help me with the cartel while I’m waiting to be reinstated.”
Stephanie looked at him, surprised.
“You want help?”
Blake shrugged.
“Sure. I’ve worked with you enough that I’d rather it was you than anyone else. At least I know you won’t screw it all up.”
Stephanie considered him thoughtfully.
“Rob won’t let me take on any cases until I’m out of here and back at work,” she said slowly. “If you’re serious, I’d love to work on it. After the bombs and those drivers, I want that cartel shut down as much as you.”
“Then we’ll get to work. We can’t have you laying around being lazy,” he said with a wink. “Not when there’s so much fun to be had working with me!”
Viper looked up when she heard the ding from the server in the other room. She set down the sharpening stone and long deadly blade, and stepped out of her armory into the command center. One of the monitors was blinking a message: Access granted.
A faint, satisfied smile crossed her lips and she pulled a chair over to the computer, seating herself. She pulled out a dual ended USB cord and plugged one end into the desktop and the other into an external drive connected by a separate cord to a laptop that she rarely used. Once everything was connected, Alina turned her attention to the screen and pulled the keyboard towards her on the counter.
“Alright, Charlie,” she murmured. “Let’s see what you know about Kyle Anthony March, aka Jordan Murphy.”
If Viper felt any twinge of conscience at successfully hacking into the Organization’s server, she resolutely pushed it aside. Desperate times, and all that.
She opened up the drive directory and began scanning the drives, looking for the one that housed all the asset files. Viper knew it would be encrypted and hard to find, but after ten minutes of searching, she found it. After another thirty minutes, she had it decrypted. She clicked it open and found herself looking at a list of seventy-five folders, all numerical. Alina frowned. She wasn’t surprised the assets were assigned by numbers rather than names, but it made it significantly harder to find Kyle’s folder.
Viper studied the folders. The numbers weren’t dates, or ages, or even military ID numbers. They appeared to be completely random, but she knew that couldn’t be the case. Each number had to relate to the asset in some way. She pursed her lips and began scrolling through the list of folders, looking for any numbers she recognized as pertaining to herself. That would give her a clue as to the naming convention, and help narrow down which of these folders belonged to Kyle. While she could simply open them and go through them one by one, Viper hesitated to do so. While she was fully prepared to violate Kyle’s privacy, she wasn’t ready to intrude on anyone else’s. She knew she would be furious if someone went through her file without authorization.
It was about halfway through the list that Viper stopped and studied a number that jumped out at her. The two-digit year of her birth initially caught her attention, but the four digits following it held it. A reluctantly impressed smile pulled at her lips, and she scooted down to the computer a few feet away to open Kyle’s military file. A moment later, she was back to scrolling through the list of folders. She found the number she was looking for toward the bottom of the list.
Clicking open the folder, she reached for her bottle of water. Kyle’s file was smaller than she was expecting and she frowned, opening the first folder. Most of it was his military file, with some background reports and assessment reviews. She opened the next folder, scanning through medical records. Viper raised an eyebrow when she saw he had had tuberculosis as a teenager, leaving him with weakened lungs. The report noted that the condition had not caused asthma, and he was physically cleared. She closed out the medical history a few minutes later. Not surprisingly, there was no mention of the reconstructive surgery in Madrid.
Alina stretched and drank some water, opening the last folder. She frowned when she saw only one file inside. Clicking it open, she scanned his progress reports from the Organization’s training facility. When she was finished, she sat back, stunned. Kyle had never completed the training course! Halfway through, his psych evaluations had deteriorated, and the last notation was from Charlie, discharging him from the program.
Kyle Anthony March had never become one of them.
Viper rubbed her eyes. Fantastic. A mercenary who was partially trained by the Organization. She didn’t know which was worse: a fully trained assassin on a par with herself, or a partially trained one, forced to complete his training on his own in the field, without the benefit of oversight from a team of veterans. At least she could predict what another asset would do in any given situation. Kyle was a wild card.
Alina sat forward again, copying his entire folder onto the external drive. When it finished, she went back to the home folder. While she was here, she might as well copy her own file. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to have a little insurance. She initiated the copy, hesitating for a moment before searching for Hawk’s. He would be furious if he ever found out, but she grabbed it anyway. She had no intention of reading it, but if things went badly, they might need proof that they both were on Team USA, even if that particular team was unaware of their existence.
She was just getting ready to close out of the drive when another number caught her attention. Alina frowned and stared at the number below the folder. It took a full minute for her to realize why the number was so familiar to her. When she did, she sucked in her breath and felt her skin go cold as a wave of shock rolled over her. Her breath caught in her throat, and Alina felt as if her heart had stopped for a few seconds. The number swam before her eyes for a moment, then her heart pounded in her chest. It couldn’t be.
It wasn’t possible.
Almost in a daze, Alina clicked on the folder. It was filled with at least twelve sub-folders. She clicked on the first folder almost fearfully, not wanting to look but knowing that she must. Even though she knew what she would find, part of her hoped against hope she was wrong. The file opened and she stared at the military history on the screen. Her stomach dropped out of her and her face went hot, then cold again.
Alina reached for her water, her hand trembling, never taking her eyes off the military ID photo attached to the file. She knew what she would find as soon as she saw the number under the folder. She knew she was opening something she didn’t want to see. It didn’t seem to matter, didn’t seem to lessen the gut-punching effect of seeing the proof before her.
Dave Maschik had been an asset in the Organization.