"A girl can't live on Jell-O squares alone."
"Who brought those dreadful things in here?" she asked.
Kicking the floor near the door, Sam grinned. A chocolate leather jacket hugged his beefy shoulders and tapered at his waist over faded jeans and a worn leather belt. A crisp white button-down camouflaged his tense muscles, while his tripod stance gave away his mood: all business. He looked catalogue handsome, not the scruffy thug I'd met in Central Park bushes. Earlier he'd brought me my old uniform: dark jeans, T-shirt, sneakers, as well as a Cal sweatshirt care of Higgins. I looked dressed to attend a college game, not hide in protective custody. I laughed to resume my mask, and yet felt disappointed. We were such different people now; him a little more somber, me a little less hopeless. Even my body got a makeover, so why was I slipping back into old skin?
Ramsey handed me two bottles. "Remember to finish your antibiotics, unlike some patients." Her eyes darted to Sam. "Pain meds are up to you. These aren't addictive like the others, but I respect your concerns, given your history. Let's not repeat the past." She gave me a slicing glance. I'd opted for souped-up ibuprofens over Oxycodone to avoid that history, one Sam didn't know completely. "And no strenuous activity for a few weeks. You need to give your body a vacation."
"Strenuous. As in no Boston Marathon or no sex?"
Ramsey bobbed her head, reviving visions of the hula girl in her car. "Skip the marathon, try the sex."
Sam cleared his throat.
"And try to stay away from bad boys." She pursed her lips.
"I wish I could repay you," I said, dropping my chin. "The clinic—"
"Can be rebuilt," she said. "A lot easier than you can. Nobody got hurt. That's what matters, so no apologies. I got myself into this mess as stupidly as you did. You're not the only woman to get suckered by a sweet smile and a cute ass." She glared again at Sam, who coughed while I choked back laughter.
"Your aunt would be proud of you, Julie Larson. I know because I'm proud of you." She set a hand on my shoulder and as quickly removed it. "George, on the other hand, would like to wring your neck."
"And I thought you were the scary one." I gave her a quick hug—to her pretended displeasure.
"Time to go," said Sam. He ducked his head into the hall and whistled. The faint sound of claws scratched the linoleum and Max ran into the room, leaping onto the bed.
I gave him a bear squeeze he couldn't escape, and he rapidly licked my face. "Hey, handsome. I missed you too."
"Only service dogs in the hospital." Ramsey shooed Max off the bed with her clipboard.
"Hey, he's Bureau-issued." Sam pointed to a dime-store police badge on Max's collar. Adorable.
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Don't get any ideas, Agent."
Sam's grin widened, making me worry.
"We need her ready to move, Agent," Reynolds said as he entered, dropping a black duffel bag at Sam's feet. "Wrap up the niceties so Daniels can deliver her. Transport rolls in fifteen."
Ramsey strode toward him, a school-principal grip on the clipboard. "My patient is fine, no thanks to you two. Try shooting her next time. It's faster."
When the grand dame of admonishments exited, Reynolds approached me. "Glad to hear you're healthy." To my curt nod he offered a slow blink. The man was a master of appearing annoyed. "A change of clothes and toiletries are in the bag. You won't need money. Base needs are covered till we relocate you. You'll receive a new identity and cards then. In the meantime, no cell phones, no credit cards or calling cards. Nothing traceable allowed. Are we clear?" Reynolds shoved his finger toward Max. "And no dog."
Max barked. I agreed with him. The man was a bully.
When Reynolds turned and whispered to Daniels, I mouthed "please" to Sam, but he closed his eyes and shook his head, conveying he'd already argued the case for me to take Max along. That's when another wave of disappointment hit. I'd never truly been on my own. I'd survived war scenes, two bombings, Troy's attack, emergency surgery, and a crazy undercover cop. But Max had always been my one constant.
"Vest," said Reynolds to Sam. But it was Daniels who dragged the Kevlar off the side chair and offered to help me gear up.
"I know how to wear it," I said.
Daniels glanced to Sam, who said, "War photographer."
Daniels' brows shot up and he backed off. That was the second time I'd elicited any semblance of an emotional response from the former Secret Service agent.
With my vest strapped in place, Daniels handed me a hat and sunglasses, as if those could shield me from gunfire or explosions. The cougar on the WSU hat was in full roar. I glared at Sam.
He shrugged. "Payback's a bitch."
Reynolds finished giving orders and vacated the room. I could feel my blood pressure beating up a lather with our big goodbye approaching. I gathered my new full-length down coat and hopped off the bed. Then I grabbed the bed rail, floating in space a moment, the bed whirling below, the weight of Kevlar pulling me toward the ground. When the spinning ceased, I was leaning sideways with Sam holding onto my hips. I never saw him cross the room.
"Always zero to sixty with you." His fingers slipped to my elbow, sending heat up my arm. "You're still medicated, Jules. Try first gear."
Sam had barely touched me since the surgery, as nursing staff and Bureau guards alike scrutinized his visits. He'd seemed happy to comply, kissing me like I was porcelain because he blamed himself—for Troy choking me, for the bomb, for the emergency surgery—and nothing I said diminished his self-flagellation.
Now I wanted Sam to throw everyone out of the room, rip off the vest and toss me onto the bed with lust-filled fury. Meeting his gaze was a mistake. I could feel Sam's energy wrap around me, cocooning me against the world, but neither Sam nor Max were accompanying this caravan. That was my first wave of disappointment. Reynolds had informed me days earlier that Sam was pulled from the case because he was needed elsewhere. As in
not in my bed
.
Sam snapped a leash onto Max's collar and stepped back. "Good to go."
"See you around, tough guy." My chest tightened, that armor plate bonding to my skin.
For sanity's sake, I avoided sentimental words that would only make the inevitable separation burn worse. We'd experienced enough pain since our Central Park introduction to last ten lifetimes. So I pretended we'd meet soon, when Sam returned Max to me, like he'd returned grandfather's coat.
I scrubbed Max's neck. "You make a good team. Take care of him." I wasn't sure if I was talking about Max to Sam or vice versa.
Sam pulled Daniels aside, mumbled in his ear, and I could only guess what special instructions I'd earned.
She's dangerous, unpredictable, careless. Crazy.
But as Daniels ushered me out, Sam remained silent.
And that was much, much worse than sentiment. Sam's prevailing quietude scraped at my heart. And passing him felt like walking through water; the density of tension fought my progress. At the last second his fingers slid forward, brushed my hip. My skin quaked. Sam had lousy timing.
My feet paced toward the stairwell. The pitter-patter of Max's nails and Sam's footsteps echoed behind me and then stopped. I could feel Sam pulling that cord linking us, and I wanted to turn, run to him, smother him in kisses till I shattered.
Sam whistled, and I spun around. Max's ears stood high, like he was waiting for me to call for him. Grinning, Sam swung the duffel bag in the air.
Daniels set a hand on my shoulder, then jogged back for the bag himself. I just stood there, watching the men huddle and Daniels smiling over some joke before he retraced his steps.
Sam crouched to hold Max from following, scrubbing my dog's chest and whispering in his ear. My heart swelled. They'd be fine without me. And they'd have each other.
Daniels and I turned into the stairwell, where more Feds joined us: two agents in athletic windbreakers fronted the pack, while Higgins guarded our six. We descended the steep cement stairs at a brisk pace. So brisk my body revolted and I had to take Daniels' arm to keep from slipping down a full flight on my ass.
"Nice dog," Daniels whispered.
"Don't you get any ideas either."
The exit door at the bottom led into the underground garage, where a black SUV pulled up short. The squeal of tires seemed silly, considering this area of the garage had been emptied on account of my transport.
More suited agents unloaded: my transport detail. They'd guard me throughout protective custody until I earned official entry into the Witness Protection Program, at which time I'd be delivered to U.S. Marshals and hidden till I gave my testimony at trial, and then I'd be officially enrolled into the system and escorted to God-knows-which-hick-town under God-knows-what-name. Hiding out in my Manhattan apartment for three years seemed comparatively low-maintenance.
Sam also shared the story they'd leaked to the media: "Authorities confirmed the body found in the apartment fire was that of award-winning photographer Julie Larson." Sam had insisted on adding the "award-winning" part, to which Reynolds blinked in slow motion. The bombing was covered up, the explosion blamed on gas pipes, and Julie Larson was dead. God rest her soul.
The new me stiffened as Reynolds stepped in front of the SUV and punched out orders to his men. "Daniels, take back seat. Higgins, driver. Passenger seat is for the detail's lead officer."
Reynolds' sunglasses were oddly smaller than his mustache and completely unnecessary in a basement garage. I chuckled, which made his lips thin. My new ally was not my biggest fan. Big news. At least he wasn't joining the transport. He'd finished questioning me while I recovered from surgery—at my insistence, so the day I walked out of the hospital I'd be free of FBI interrogations—but he never quite appreciated my vague answers. Memory loss was common with head wounds, I'd explained.
"Miss Larson," said Reynolds. "Meet your new detail lead." He motioned toward the driver side as a figure rounded the hood. "I'm sure you remember your friend, Detective McCarthy."
CHAPTER 25
Stone flashed his slick-white teeth at me and shook my hand. "We're always meeting in unusual circumstances, Miss Larson."
My heart double-timed. With his back to the men and the SUV, no one could see Stone's hand doing more fondling than shaking. Sam hadn't warned me that Stone would be on-boarded to the detail team, let alone as top dog. Maybe Sam didn't know.
"Detective McCarthy's assisting us with security," said Reynolds. "Part of our Joint Task Force with NYPD in this investigation. Unlike Agent Fields, we like to play team here. I hope that you are on our team, Miss Larson."
His emphasis on 'our' sounded provoking, and I noted that Stone stared at me with the same cold intensity as Reynolds.
I crossed my arms, gratitude sticking in the back of my throat. "Of course. I'm indebted for your protection."
"Good. Detective McCarthy will take you straight to the safe house," he continued. "No phone calls, no visitors, no contact with the outside world. He's your voice now. Only his team and I will know of your location and travel routes. I'm counting on you, Detective McCarthy, to take the best care of her. And I expect you, Miss Larson, to show the detective the full respect and courtesy his position warrants." Reynolds lowered his glasses and glared at me. "Remember, we're all risking our lives for you."
"She'll be a perfect lady," said Stone, taking my elbow.
Or else
, I read from his patronizing grip.
***
Stone remained occupied in the passenger seat, noting street names, calling directions over his radio to another SUV behind us. Broadway danced past us quickly enough for non-rush-hour traffic. He refused to tell me where we were heading, so I'd been quiet the whole ride, trying to guess our destination. But looping Manhattan seemed more like a gas mileage test than a security mission. No doubt they'd hole me up in some rundown motel, considering Reynolds' distaste for me. Little did he know I'd stayed in third world rat holes, so I could bear his worst.
I leaned between the front seats. "Any chance this place is in New Jersey?"
"I'd rather be sure we're not being followed." Stone twisted in his seat to speak to me directly. "Standard procedure. I'm sure you appreciate us following Bureau security protocols."
"Procedure, of course." Sure I understood his need to follow rules, just not necessarily official ones. "Looking forward to eating, that's all."
He smiled. "Food's a great start. I'll be sure to make arrangements for us as soon as we land."
That threat cut through my calm.
The SUV jogged through town on 34th, then headed up Park Avenue. Eventually, we rounded the Waldorf Astoria and parked near the employees' entrance.
"I could get used to this." I pulled back my sunglasses.
"Don't push your luck," said Stone. He jumped out and signaled both vehicles with a twirling finger.
"Green light," Daniels said to his wrist mike when he opened my door.
"She's not the President, Agent. Just move her," said Stone.
Higgins blocked my path as Daniels used another Kevlar vest to shroud my head and the two mystery agents came up the rear. Sandwiched between the men, Daniels' hands on the back of my neck, I hustled for the hotel entrance like a silly movie star sneaking in the back door with her entourage. Not at all conspicuous.
"Daniels, clear a path," Stone called as he swiped a security card and pointed down a hollow corridor. The heavy metal door slammed shut at our heels. Stone was already several feet ahead of us. He wore a basic black wool coat, not the expensive leather or camel-hair coats he'd donned for our meetings. Law-enforcement groomed, not a man sipping wine on a date.
As Daniels jogged out of view, Higgins took up his absence and held fast to my arm. We turned right to cut through the prep kitchen.
"Go Bears," I said quietly, and he gave a short smile behind his aviator sunglasses.
A tanned fellow wiped his hand on a white frock as he rounded a hidden corner without noticing the men in black coming at him like a tidal wave. A chef's knife keeled in his right hand, a giant pan lid in the other. He looked prepared for medieval battle.