No shock there. Trevor was obviously going behind Dick’s back on this manhunt for the bomber who’d killed John, which was almost certainly going to get him into trouble if the director ever found out. If Thomas Thorn really was behind the bombing, that trouble might just be of the fatal variety for everyone involved. If Skye and that guy—who was definitely an analyst type if Alina had ever seen one—were the ones passing Trevor his intel, her partner struck her as the kind of man who would do anything to protect them.
The fact that Trevor didn’t want to talk to her about any of this meant he was worried she’d run off and tell Dick. After yesterday’s training, he might trust her more than he had before but apparently not enough to put anyone other than himself at risk.
Even though she understood why he’d do that, it still hurt a little. She couldn’t help wondering if he was simply being careful out of habit or because he knew Dick had cornered her in the main building this morning.
The director had waylaid her the moment she’d walked in the door, pulling her into his office and grilling her for over thirty minutes about what exactly she and Trevor had done down in Fredericksburg on Wednesday and why she hadn’t reported to him already.
Since she hadn’t been able to come up with any convenient lie—and knowing he’d check up on anything she’d said anyway—Alina told him they’d gone to Bowling Green and talked to Seth Larson. She’d done a good job of downplaying the whole thing, making it seem like Trevor had simply been looking for proof that one of the shifters had been around John’s office at some point prior to the explosion. Dick had been curious about Larson, but Alina had kept her answers vague. She didn’t want to make trouble for Larson. He already had it hard enough.
“I want to know when Trevor takes a piss,” Dick said, fixing her with a stern look. “Don’t forget why I hired you, Agent Bosch.”
The mere thought of spying on her partner had Alina twisting anxiously in her seat again.
“You sure that dress isn’t bothering you?” Trevor asked. “Is it chafing or something?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “No, it’s fine. Trust me, dresses this expensive don’t chafe.”
He threw her an amused glance as he turned off I-95 onto 395, getting closer to the Inner Harbor. “I just figured maybe there was something under the dress that was too tight, or…I don’t know…pinching somewhere.”
That went to show how little men knew about what women had to go through to look this good. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but with a dress this form fitting, wearing panties isn’t an option.”
Trevor glanced her way, his eyes automatically going to the juncture of her thighs. He looked away quickly, like he didn’t want her to realize where his mind might have been, but it was a little late for that. The heat she’d seen there—and the little flash of yellow glow if she wasn’t mistaken—gave him away.
Beside her, Trevor suddenly seemed very interested in something in his side view mirror. Knowing he was attracted to her should have pissed her off. What kind of work relationship could they build if he saw her as a woman instead of a partner? But for some reason, she couldn’t quite muster up as much outrage as she probably should have. In fact, she found his attraction to her…interesting. Definitely something she was going to have to talk to Kathy about.
As Trevor turned off the interstate and hit the side streets a little while later, she realized he was still checking his side mirror as well as the rearview every few seconds. Then she recognized the same gas station they’d already passed. Trevor was driving in circles and checking his mirrors to see if they had a tail. She checked her side mirror but didn’t see anything suspicious.
She was about to ask if he did when he suddenly turned into the parking lot of the Horseshoe Casino and began driving up and down the rows of parking spaces. She glanced over her shoulder to look behind them but still didn’t see anyone.
“Are you lost and refusing to ask for directions, or are you worried we picked up a tail?” she asked, turning back around.
She wasn’t sure who the hell might be following them, but if she had to guess, she’d say it must have been someone Dick sent to keep an eye on them. That wasn’t good.
“I don’t think anyone’s following us, but I wanted to make sure,” Trevor said, pulling out of the parking lot. “As far as getting lost, you don’t have to worry about that. As a shifter, it’s genetically impossible for me to get lost.”
Alina was still wondering if Trevor was serious or not when he turned onto a street called Worchester and headed toward an area near the train tracks that looked a little run-down. Surprising, considering they weren’t all that far off the main thoroughfare. They kept going until the road ended in a big parking lot in front of an equally large industrial building. Looking at it, you’d never know the place was a restaurant if it hadn’t been for the glitzy lights along the front and a big neon sign proclaiming it to be The End of the Road. Looked like a dive to her.
There were more fancy cars in the parking lot than she expected to see. Even a few limos that looked seriously out of place. As did the two big guards standing by the front door wearing suits that were working overtime in their attempt to cover up all the muscles and the handguns both men were carrying in underarm holsters.
“You’re telling me the police never realized what’s going on around here?” she asked Trevor.
He pulled into a parking space and turned off the engine. “I’m sure they know. But as long as no one causes problems, they apparently look the other way.”
Alina nodded. On some level, that made sense.
Beside her, Trevor flipped down the visor and adjusted his tie in the mirror. Damn, he looked good in the expensive silk suit Skye had picked out for him. And the light stubble along his jawline made him look even better. Then again, she’d always had a thing for guys with scruff.
“Who’s this guy we’re looking for, and why do you think he’s connected to John Loughlin’s death?” she asked.
“These days, he goes by the name of Doug Smith.” Trevor reached into the backseat, coming up with a thin manila folder. He flipped though the file until he came out with a photo of a man in his early forties with dark hair sprinkled with a little bit of gray.
“His real name is Dokka Shishani,” Trevor continued. “He’s from Chechnya, where he fought for years in the Chechen-Russian conflict. It’s also where he learned his trade as a bomb maker. He moved to the States in 2008, becoming a naturalized citizen in 2014. Since then, he’s been implicated in a few assassination-style bombings in South America and Asia, but nothing that’s ever stuck. He does a good job blending in with the local Russian community, which must be hard as hell considering how much Chechens and Russians dislike each other.”
Alina had spent some time over in Chechnya during the early part of her career in the CIA. The war there had devastated the country for nearly twenty years, and it was just now starting to crawl out from under the massive destruction. It was a tough place to live but an even tougher place to get out of.
She picked up the picture and studied it, committing the man’s face to memory. “With a background like his, I’m surprised he was allowed through immigration. The State Department normally would have flagged somebody like him long before he ever got a green card.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Trevor agreed.
