Troublemaker (35 page)

After a pause Axel said, “True. I'm listening.”

“But we can bait them into coming after me again, which is essentially what you'd planned to do anyway. You expected them to spring the trap when they were looking for my location, but they're too smart for that because they expect a trap from you.”

“I'm too good at my job,” Axel said sourly.

Bo rolled her eyes but suppressed a snort.

“So I need to go to them,” Morgan said.

There was a short pause, then Axel said interestedly, “What's on your mind?”

“Just thinking out loud here, but maybe give me a medical discharge, or just put in my files that I'll need to be reevaluated due to physical problems. Whatever. I initiate the contact with the Kingsleys, let them know I remember, say I need money.”

“Blackmail.”

“Without actually saying it.”

“That's entrapment.”

“I'm not a law officer.”

“Yeah, but now you're breaking the law and they still haven't.”

“They will when they come after me and try to kill me again. Do you honestly think they'd be willing to quietly make blackmail payments for the foreseeable future?”

“No. A politician like Kingsley couldn't let that kind of threat hang over her head.”

The three of them were silent as the possibilities and probabilities ran through their heads. Bo stood quietly beside Morgan, half of her want
ing to shriek at him for putting himself in danger again and the other half knowing he had to do whatever he could to resolve the situation. She put that aside and tried to think strategically. If the Kingsleys—or, more likely, another hired killer—came after Morgan, they'd be coming here because Morgan was right, and here at her isolated home would logically be the best place for any attempt on him to happen. Any halfway competent killer would figure that out in short order.

But . . . what if the killer used a rifle? That would be almost impossible to defend against. There were a lot of hills surrounding her house on which a patient assassin could silently wait for a good shot. Her blood ran cold as the truth of that thought sank deep into her bones.

There was no way to know whether or not Morgan would ever have noticed the significance of the blue shirt if she hadn't questioned him, but her actions had definitely set events into motion. If anything happened to him, it would be her fault, and she didn't know if she could live with that.

Therefore, she had to do whatever she could to keep that from happening.

Morgan said, “Let me know when you've doctored my file and rechecked your computer geek.” He disconnected the call, turned around, and pulled her down on his lap. “Stop,” he commanded.

“Stop what?”

“Fretting. Blaming yourself.”

She leaned against him, let herself enjoy how big he was so that their faces were on a level rather than her sitting above him; enjoying, also, how attuned to her he was. That in itself was a revelation because she'd always worked so hard at keeping herself hidden. But Morgan
saw
her, and apparently liked what he saw. “Fretting is a natural part of the situation,” she said. “And, yes, I have part of the responsibility for whatever the outcome is. If it works, yay me. If it doesn't . . .” To her dismay, her voice wobbled, and she had to blink fast to vanquish the tears that threatened. She firmed her mouth and lifted her chin, refusing to give in. What they had to face was best done with logic and preparation, not tears and emotion. She'd save those for afterward.

A small scowl pulled his dark brows together. “Listen. Part of my job is anticipating all the possibles. If I fail at that, it's on me. But there are things we can do. For instance, whatever phone I use to contact the Kingsleys, Axel can transfer the trigger to that number so when they trace the phone's location, we'll know to start looking for movement. Likewise, now he knows to start tracing all their calls, to put eyes on them, so if they have a personal meet with anyone we'll know it.”

It was reassuring to know they wouldn't simply be sitting there waiting for someone to take a shot at him.

“What if the Kingsleys are innocent?” she asked. “What if it
is
the Russian—Yartsev—and he's betraying Russia to us, via the Kingsleys?”

“That's the best possible scenario. If that's the case, as soon as I contact the Kingsleys, they'll have Homeland Security on me so fast my ass will be in jail before I can blink twice. That's when Axel will have to come to my rescue before I get locked in some hole.”

Her horror must have shown on her face because she didn't trust Axel to do anything. Morgan chuckled and said, “It won't come to that. I'll be held while my story is checked, sure, and there'll have to be some high-level powwows, but then the various agencies will get things settled. I have a top-secret security clearance and was reinvestigated just last year; that'll settle down most of the dust.”

“But even if that's the best possible situation, Yartsev still tried to kill you. Wouldn't the Kingsleys have told him what you do, who you are?”

“They
should
have, if that were the case, but that doesn't mean he'd necessarily trust their assessment. If he's betraying his country, he's probably seeing knives coming at his back from every angle.”

“Why wouldn't he try again?”

“I imagine the issue would be discussed with him,” he said drily. “But that's all supposition. Until I know for certain they aren't involved, I'm going on the assumption that the Kingsleys are in this up to their asses. In the meantime, we'll start making preparations and taking precautions.”

“Such as?”

“Perimeter security. I like what's already been done, but there can be more, and Axel can find the budget to pay for it. FLIR systems—that's forward-looking infrared cameras, which will spot body heat—wireless transmitters, an escape route. I can get one put in fairly fast if you don't mind tearing up a section of the floor. Beef up the windows. Of course, the best thing would be for you and Tricks to stay in town—”

“No,” she said fiercely, then immediately realized no way would she let Tricks stay in any danger zone. “Well, Tricks can stay with Daina. But if I'm not going about my routine, wouldn't that be a heads-up to anyone watching?”

“Only if they've been watching long enough to
know
your routine.”

“I don't care about the floor,” she said, ignoring his point because she wasn't about to give ground on hers. “Tear it up. Start tomorrow.”

“We don't have to move quite that fast. The clock won't start ticking until I contact the Kingsleys, and I won't do that until Axel doctors my file with the fake medical disability and finishes checking out his hack-hunter. You burned his ass with that one,” he said, grinning.

“And now I've caused a delay because he's paranoid.”

“It isn't paranoia if it's real. The world he lives in, it's real. I know he's checked his guy out so thoroughly he probably knows the placement of every freckle, and I figure the guy's clean, but Axel will take a hard look at him again.” He paused. “I suggest we bring Jesse into the loop. We may need his help, his and the rest of your officers. I want to do everything I can to minimize any danger to you and the town.”

She thought about that, running through things like scheduling and the budget—things that, as chief, she had to think about. “It would have to be on their own time. I don't think their involvement could be on the town dime.”

“I don't expect them to do it for free, and I'll handle their pay.” He shrugged. “I'm always gone too much to spend my paycheck, so it accumulates.”

Privately Bo thought he might have to fight the men to get them to take money, given the way they were all but hero-worshipping him, but that was a problem for later.

Instinctively she knew that Morgan was slipping into his zone now, that he was going on the offensive instead of waiting for someone else to make a move. She could sense his focus sharpening, all but feel the electricity zinging through his veins. This was his world, a world of strategy and violence, and he was at home in it.

I
NVITING KILLERS TO COME AFTER HIM MEANT MORGAN
had to do some serious strategizing, not just for himself but for Bo and any of the Hamrickville officers who elected to help. He went for a run, needing the automatic physical activity that would free his mind to worry and pick at the situation like a wolf picking at a carcass. He put on his shorts and running shoes, told Bo how long he'd be gone, and set out over the hills, pushing himself to a dead run.

He was afraid Bo was going to be a problem. His instinct was to make sure she was far away from any potential harm, and he expected her to fight him every inch of the way. He respected that, up to a point—the point at which he turned hairy and started dragging his knuckles on the ground. The bottom line was that she was precious to him and he'd do anything and everything he could to keep her safe, no matter how much of a battle she put up.

One step at a time, though; if he'd learned anything from all his missions over the years, it was that events never played out the way they were originally anticipated.

That was worrisome because it meant that no matter how he strategized, he couldn't cover everything. He had to play the odds and plan for the most likely avenue of attack while staying alert for something—anything—different.

This could go down several different ways. Yeah, it would be great if Homeland Security showed up and arrested him, because that truly would be the best outcome for both him and the country. He wanted Congresswoman Kingsley to be innocent, to be working for the country rather than against it. He liked her. She seemed warm and genuine. Big deal. He went with facts, not emotion.

At any rate, he didn't have to make any preparations for Homeland Security—likely the FBI. He was good there.

The possibilities after that were trickier, and far more likely.

The bad guys might use the Russian mob again, but he'd bet against that for a couple of reasons. One, they'd already tapped that asset, and it hadn't worked out well. Using them again established a pattern, one that pointed to Russia, which could lead to Yartsev. And while the Russian mob could blend in with a large metropolitan population, it was a different story in Hamrickville, West Virginia. A Russian would stand out like a hyena in a wolf den. Hell, someone from
New York
would stand out.

Which left the Kingsleys and Yartsev with two or three options: hire a home-grown hit man—which had a higher probability of success but meant bringing in a stranger who might or might not be reliable and who would represent another possible security risk—or involve the SVR, which had taken the place of the KGB.

If Homeland Security and FBI involvement was Morgan's best-case scenario, the SVR was his worst. The organization could bring to bear measures he'd have a difficult time countering: FLIR imaging, for one, which could literally tell them how many warm bodies were in the house and where. Overwhelming force was another possibility, in which every living thing in the house would be obliterated. A massive explosion was another possibility, as was a trained sniper taking him out any time he ventured out of the house.

On the other hand, if the Kingsleys were dealing state secrets to the SVR, the Russians wouldn't want to call attention to the organization or the connection. If anything went wrong—and something almost al
ways went wrong, in some way—the repercussions would far outweigh the benefits.

Morgan mentally rolled the situation around, decided the SVR's involvement wasn't likely. Neither was the Russian mob's. Higher on the probability scale was a professional, but when secrecy was essential, involving others was a risk.

The most likely move they'd make was much closer to home. One of them personally would come to do the job.

Again, he necked down the probabilities. Joan Kingsley was the least likely, with her husband only slightly more likely, because he knew both of them on sight. Then again, maybe they both had unsuspected skill with weapons, which they would count on to take him by surprise. Yartsev himself was another possibility. He for certain would be weapons trained, and likely also trained to disguise himself. Though Morgan would have photographs and possibly video to study soon, he'd seen Yartsev in the flesh only once, and at a distance.

So—Yartsev was the most likely, followed by Dexter Kingsley, then Joan Kingsley. Or Yartsev and Dexter working together. Or all three of them.

Despite Yartsev's training, Morgan thought that was something he could handle. His own training was far beyond anything Yartsev would have experienced, at least in weapons and strategy. The SVR man dealt with espionage and intelligence; Morgan dealt with devastation—two very different disciplines.

He would prepare for three shooters; if only two, or even just one, tried to take him out, he'd be overprepared, which wasn't a bad thing.

While he'd been mentally sorting through all the details he'd been running full out, and now he slowed to a jog to cool down. A glance at his watch told him he'd been running for an hour; he was soaked with sweat, but all in all he felt pretty good. He was all systems go, heart and lungs working hard but smoothly. His legs weren't up to snuff yet after enduring two months of enforced inactivity, but every day he was adding distance to what he'd done the day before.

If they came here expecting to find a broken-down wreck, they were in for a surprise.

That said, he couldn't afford to feel cocky about his chances. His good physical condition would be easy for them to find out if they did even the most rudimentary fact-finding before acting. He had to assume they would if Yartsev was involved. The Russian wouldn't walk blind into his own bathroom. The Kingsleys . . . maybe, if they were acting on their own.

He took an easier pace heading back to the house, and halfway back ran into Bo and Tricks on their walk. As soon as she saw him, Tricks whirled and raced toward him, barking happily. He knelt down and gave her some vigorous ear rubbing and chest scratching, which evidently felt so good she almost collapsed in bliss.

Bo approached at a slower pace, Tricks's pink leash hooked through her belt loop out of her way, her green tank top baring the gleaming skin of her shoulders to the bright morning light. She was smiling as she watched him and Tricks. “Did you get everything worked out?” she asked, and when he stood, she linked her arm through his despite his sweatiness.

Morgan looked down at her and everything coalesced inside him in a blinding moment of light, the color around him flaring in brilliance before fading back to normal. In the trees a mockingbird began running through its repertoire of trills, whistles, and warbles, the sweet tone sinking into his bones. “Not yet,” he said, feeling as if he were in an alternate universe and liking it. “The main part is up to you.”

“Me?” She looked both puzzled and pleased. “I thought you didn't want me to help. Okay, what can I do?”

No hesitation, he thought, just a willingness to throw herself into the fray and do whatever she could. “You can marry me,” he said.

She froze and actually turned white. Her big dark eyes widened until they eclipsed her face. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out.

He figured the turning white wasn't a good sign, but he knew the battle he had to fight was also one he had to win, and he was ready to go to war, right here and right now, to get this woman. “I've been playing
it cool,” he said, “not putting any pressure on you because I know you've dealt with some shitty people who let you down, and I wanted to give you time to realize you can trust me. But now I may be running out of time, and I want you sewed up and locked down, legally, in case this thing doesn't have a good outcome.”

If anything, she went even whiter, standing stock-still on the narrow trail in the woods. The mockingbird sang some more, and a few other birds got in their own whistles and calls. Tricks dropped her ball at his feet and backed up, tail wagging, inviting him to throw it for her. For once, the humans in her life ignored her.

Bo's mouth worked again, and this time words came out. “That's not fair,” she croaked.

He clamped his hands around her waist and turned her to face him. “I don't give a shit about fair. I give a shit about you. Oh hell, that wasn't very romantic, was it?” He bent his head a little to peer into her eyes. “Do you want romantic? I can try. I'm more of a see-it, want-it, go-for-it type of guy, and I did: see you, want you, go for you.”

Her chin wobbled, and alarm spiked through him. “Are you going to cry? Don't. Please don't. Just say yes, and we're good.”

She looked around wildly as if expecting to be rescued by a bush or a tree, but his hands were firm on her waist and he wasn't about to let her go. Finally she half-shrieked, “You want me to marry you because you might
die
?” but at least she was talking and not crying.

“No, I want you to marry me because I'm . . . I'm—” To his consternation, the words clogged in his throat, and it was his turn to look around for one of those rescue bushes. Damn it. He thought he'd said them before, when he'd been engaged, but if he had, it was because they'd been expected and he couldn't remember for certain. This was completely different. This was important. This was the rest of his life.

He looked down into those big dark eyes, so solemn and so scared, and his pulse leaped through his body. He grabbed a deep breath and went for it. “I'm crazy in love with you. That's
why
I want to marry you. I want to marry you
now
so if anything happens to me, everything I
own will come to you, no question. I'm not rich, but I have some savings and a good pickup truck, plus an old boat. What do you say?”

Annoyed that they were ignoring her, Tricks gave an indignant bark. He glanced down at her; she used her paw to bat the ball to his foot in case he couldn't figure it out. He gave a rough laugh. “I just hope you love me half as much as you love your dog.”

The seconds ticked along in silence, going on and on until Morgan began to wonder if he'd overshot his target. Then her lips moved, and she said in a low voice, “I do.”

He knew he had it bad when he didn't balk at coming in second to a dog. He was already used to it. Besides, Tricks wasn't an ordinary dog.

“So you'll marry me?”

She gave a jerky nod. “Though you could just make out a will leaving everything to me.”

Yeah, she'd think of that.

“I'll do that, too. But I want to marry you, and you nodded yes, so it's a done deal. Is there a waiting period in West Virginia?”

She shook her head. Then she said, “You'd have to use your real name. But West Virginia isn't an open-record state, so marriage certificates won't turn up in an online search.”

“That's convenient. I was already working out how I could finesse the timing, but it's good that it doesn't matter. I'd like to get it done tomorrow.”

“I can't,” she said, still looking dazed and more than halfway panicked.

“Why the hell not?”

“People.”

“What people—oh. The ones who would be mad at you if you didn't tell them, right?”

She sighed. “Like Daina and Loretta and Jesse and half the town.”

“Yeah, like them.”

“I can't plan a wedding overnight anyway.”

“Then we'll get married and have the wedding later.” Shit, had he just said that? He'd been off the hook until he opened his big mouth.
What had he let himself in for? Men looked forward to big weddings with less enthusiasm than they did a visit to the dentist. On the scale of things he didn't want to do, weddings might rank above seeing a proctologist. Maybe.

“I don't want a big wedding,” she said, still in a tone that said she was in shock.

If anything, he fell even more in love with her. “I don't either, but what will the town let us get away with? I can tell you straight up they'll want Tricks to be a bridesmaid.”

She gave a choked laugh. “You're probably right.” She looked down at Tricks, who had abandoned her ball to sniff around some undergrowth. “What about you? Your mother, for instance. Will she want to be here? Come to think of it, have you been in contact with her at all?”

“
I
haven't, but we thought of that. Axel has sent a couple of emails that she thinks are from me, telling her I'm all right but busy, that kind of thing.”

“Does she even know you were shot?” Bo asked, her tone a little shocked.

“No. I'm fine with her never knowing.” He rubbed the side of his nose. “You think I should tell her I'm getting married? Ah, hell, don't bother answering. But I'm still not waiting; she can come to the after-marriage wedding. What about your parents?”

She looked off, thought it over. “I'll let them know, but really, there's no point in inviting them. They won't come. An announcement after the fact will do.”

“If you want them here, they'll be here.” If he had to twist arms and break heads, they'd be here. He'd have them escorted under armed guard, if necessary. His friends weren't the type of people who messed around.

She shook her head and gave him a wry glance. “You'd make them be here, wouldn't you? I appreciate the thought, but—no. Having them here would just stress me out. I'd rather be happy.”

Making her happy was his new life's mission. He released her to lean down and pick up Tricks's ball, then linked his hand with hers and
headed back down the trail toward the house. Her slim fingers felt as fragile as a bird's bones in his rough hand, and for the first time in his life he was acutely aware of the trust being offered to him as a man. His previous relationships, abbreviated and fairly uncomplicated as most of them had been, had been straightforward and based mostly on sex. This was more. She was giving him something incredibly special—herself, her trust, inviting him into her life.