Beau bent his head and very gently kissed her. “It’s almost over, baby, and I owe it all to you. If you hadn’t shown up that day in my father’s study, I’d probably be rotting in jail.”
Cassidy rested her cheek against his shoulder. Just a few more days and Beau’s name would be cleared. Her job would be finished. She could pack her bags and go home.
Her eyes stung. Even if Beau asked her to stay, she would refuse. She valued herself too highly to live in a dead woman’s shadow.
She ignored the ache in her throat and the pain that settled deep inside her. She was in love with Beau, but she would have to give him up. There was nothing else she could do.
Chapter Thirty-Five
After they finished making love, Beau curled Cassidy against his side in bed. It had been a long, torturous day, but everything they had worked for was falling into place.
Cassidy had been quiet since they’d left the federal building. She was worried. So was he. Until Nawabi and the terrorists were stopped, anything could happen. Hundreds of lives could be lost.
He yawned, beginning to drift to sleep when his cell phone started ringing. He sighed at what was becoming an unwelcome habit. Beau snagged the phone.
“Turn on your TV,” Agent Taggart said. “Bring up the news.” Beau picked up the remote, clicked it on, and the screen lit up.
“What’s going on?” Cassidy asked as Beau changed the channel.
“It’s Taggart,” he said. From then on there wasn’t much need for explanation. Cameras rolled in Austin, showing teams of FBI agents swarming the Texas State Capitol. Bomb-sniffing dogs strained at their leashes. Lines of police vehicles and black FBI SUVs stretched as far as the camera lens could see.
Beau put the phone on speaker. “Fast work,” he said.
“The session was over for the day, but construction work was continuing at night. Hardrock Trenching was doing maintenance under the capitol rotunda, digging trenches for a series of pipes for new underground plumbing. They were also planting bombs in the trenches—set to go off with manual detonators. Cell phones that could be exploded at any time.”
“Jesus,” Beau said.
“Bombs that could kill Lord knows how many people,” Cassidy added.
“Hundreds, maybe more. Thanks to you and Cassidy, that isn’t going to happen.”
“What about Vaughn?” Cassidy asked.
“We’re lining up evidence that connects Jennings, Vaughn, Luca Reichlin, and Jamal Nawabi. They’ll all be facing charges very soon. Once things get underway, I’ll speak to the DA in Howler County on your behalf, Beau. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about being charged in Senator Reese’s murder.”
Relief hit him hard, reminding him how worried he had been. “I appreciate that.”
“You can watch some of what’s happening on TV. As things progress, I’ll keep you posted on the rest. Good night, both of you, and thanks again.” The line went dead and for a while they watched events unfolding in Austin.
No mention was made of Jamal Nawabi; nor was there any reference to Luca Reichlin, Clifford Jennings, or Malcolm Vaughn.
Still, it was only a matter of time until all of it was over. “I feel like the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders,” Beau said.
Pulling Cassidy down on the mattress, he kissed her. What started as a celebratory moment turned deeper, hotter. After everything that had happened, they seemed to needeach other tonight. He didn’t like how deeply involved he’d become, but he’d worry about that tomorrow.
Tomorrow, he told himself. It was still a day away.
* * *
It was late, almost two in the morning. Eliza Spears had been watching the sprawling contemporary home in the expensive Bluffview neighborhood from various locations, looking for exactly the right entry.
She had no idea why killing Beaumont Reese and his current bedmate, a private investigator named Cassidy Jones, was worth a quarter of a million bucks—the deal she had cut for her services—but she didn’t care.
Ten days ago, she had received the call on a disposable phone, the usual procedure. Because the payoff that Jennings had agreed to was so big, she’d made an exception to some of her rules and taken the job; then she’d gone off the grid.
Three days ago, she’d spotted a house a few blocks away from the targets’ location with a FORRENTsign in front of a small, furnished apartment above a detached garage. The property was owned by an eighty-year-old widow who rarely ventured outdoors and was too rickety to climb the stairs.
“I don’t really need the money,” Mrs. Dabney had said. “I just hate seeing the apartment go to waste.”
