Then Bree has a horrible thought. What if it’s the other way around?
What if they’ve been trackingDamon?
CHAPTER 60
Sampson
THE LAST THING I remember before falling asleep last night is passing Willow’s empty bedroom, seeing a framed photo of the two of us on her bureau, and thinking how grateful I was that she was at the Cross house, safe and secure with people who love her as much as I do.
The next thing I know, my doorbell is ringing. Damn. Is it morning already?
I roll out of bed, still in my clothes, feeling achy and fuzzy-headed. And a little bit paranoid.
I reach into my nightstand and push my thumb against an ID pad. A small gun safe pops up. I pull out my service weapon and head downstairs.
The doorbell rings again, followed by a few hard knocks.
I check the simple camera setup that lets me see who’s on the doorstep. I could have gotten a fancier electronic surveillance system, but those can easily be hacked. Sometimes old-school is best.
I see two men in dark suits looking around. Feds or law enforcement. Or Mormons.
I slip my gun into my rear waistband and open the door.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Can I help you?”
The guy on the left has short brown hair and rimless eyeglasses. Slight and slim. Looks like an accountant. His companion is bald with dense black eyebrows. He’s got a thick build and wears an ill-fitting wrinkled jacket.
The accountant-looking guy steps up. “Detective John Sampson?”
“Who’s asking?”
In perfect sync, they both hold up small leather wallets with government IDs.
“Roland Perkins, CIA,” says the accountant. “This is my associate Tom Walsh. Can we have a few moments?”
“You already woke me up, so you might as well come in.” I step aside as they both pass through the doorway. I nod toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”
My visitors both turn me down, so I make a cup just for myself in myWORLD’S GREATEST DADmug. A Father’s Day gift from Willow.
I sit down and stretch out my long legs. “You’re here about the bombings, right?”
Walsh, the heavyset one, adjusts himself in his seat. “Who says?” His tone is a little snappish.
I sip my coffee and check my watch. “Because it’s the only case I’m working on. Also, it’s the only kind of case that merits a visit from federal officers this early in the morning.”
Perkins speaks up. “Detective, we’re here to offer our help. I apologize for Officer Walsh. He’s just got in from overseas. Bad case of jet lag.”
I lean in. “Apology accepted. Which section you with?”
“I’m with the Office of the Inspector General. Officer Walsh is in the field.”
I look at Walsh. “So CIA paramilitary.” That explains the bad suit. He probably hasn’t bought a new one in years.
Walsh stares at me with steely eyes. I glance down at his hands. They’re scarred and lumpy with a few patches of healed burns. Definitely not a desk jockey.
I look back at Perkins. “You say you’re here to help?”
“That’s correct. We want Aiden Phillips as much as you do.”
