His fingertips tingled, and he tightened his grip on the mug. If he didn’t get it together, his fangs and claws were going to come out. But it was damn hard. He was seriously pissed. More than that, he was disappointed.
Jake had taken the job with STAT because McKay told him he wouldn’t have to hide what he was, that his coworkers would accept him as an equal. Instead, Jes thought of him as a freak.
When he’d first met her at the embassy, not only had she been more stunning than her photo, but she’d also smelled frigging amazing, and he’d wanted more than anything for her to like him despite knowing what he was. Instead, revulsion had rolled off her in waves.
Saying it sucked was an understatement.
Realizing he’d made a big-ass mistake getting wrapped up in STAT, last night as he lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, he’d seriously considered walking away several times. But when the sun had come up, he was still there. For one thing, he was a frigging Navy SEAL, and SEALs didn’t run from a fight. For another, there was still a fourteen-year-old girl out there somewhere almost certainly scared out of her mind, waiting for someone to bring her home.
Thoughts of Olivia Phillips were still rolling around in his head when Harley and Caleb came into the living room, mugs of coffee in hand. Harley took a seat on the couch while Caleb commandeered the other wingback chair. Neither of them said a word.
Jes showed up a few minutes later, a mug nearly the size of a flower vase in her hand. Some part of Jake—the not-so-chivalrous part—was pleased to see she looked as exhausted as he felt. Obviously, she hadn’t gotten any more sleep than he had.
Good.
And now he felt like shit for being happy about it.
Jes didn’t so much as look at him. She went out of her way to sit as far away from him as she possibly could, too, joining Harley on the couch.
“Everyone ready?” Forrest asked.
When they all said they were, Forrest typed something on the keyboard. A moment later, a vivid yellow band appeared across the top of the screen, confirming they’d established an encrypted connection secure enough for top-secret information. McKay’s face popped up on the screen. Despite the fact that it was a little after two a.m. back in DC, their boss didn’t look tired at all.
McKay didn’t waste time with pleasantries and launched into the briefing.
“As you know, we initially focused our attention on Olivia Phillips,” McKay said. “Even with the supernatural aspects of the abduction, we wanted to confirm it wasn’t some kind of human trafficking or kidnapping for ransom situation. Grabbing her out of a high-rise condo in the middle of the night didn’t fit any known human trafficking profiles, and a deep dive into the girl’s family revealed they don’t have enough money to support the kidnapping angle. That’s when we shifted our focus.”
The image of McKay minimized and moved to the upper-left corner of the screen, making room for a photo of a man in his midforties, light brown hair already going gray at the temples to match his eyes.
“This is Jack Phillips, Olivia’s father,” McKay continued. “He’s a senior investigator for MI5. His specialty is domestic terrorism, but for the past eight months, he’s been part of a joint task force with Interpol, tracking down several top-level threats throughout Europe. Apparently, Phillips is extremely good at his job.”
Jes sipped her coffee, both hands wrapped around the enormous mug. “You think Phillips went after someone who decided to push back and kidnap his daughter to get his attention?”
McKay nodded. “Yes, though there’s still some debate on whether the kidnapping was simply payback for damage already done or as a way of making Phillips back off from a current investigation.”
“Do we know who Phillips and the task force are investigating right now?” Jake asked, wondering if STAT had that kind of reach.
Photos of various people immediately popped up on the screen. Some were of Middle Eastern descent while others weren’t. Many of the pictures looked like they’d been taken from a distance, some on crowded streets, some on rubble-strewn battlefields. Most of the men wore some version of a military uniform, but a few wore suits.
“Phillips is loosely involved with investigations of several high-level threats, but he’s personally heading up only one,” McKay said.
The collage of photos disappeared to be replaced by one man. Midforties, he was lean and fit with dark hair and hazel eyes. Jake didn’t know much about men’s fashion, but even he could tell the perfectly tailored gray suit the man wore was probably worth more than Jake’s entire wardrobe—maybe his SUV, too.
“Is that…?” Misty’s voice trailed off.
“I think it is,” Harley said.
“It has to be,” Jes agreed.
Jake was amazed at the wide-eyed looks on their faces. Clearly, they knew who the guy was even if he didn’t. At least Caleb and Forrest looked as baffled as he was.
“It’s exactly who you think it is,” McKay said. “Lord Arran Darby, sole heir to the multibillion-dollar Darby fortune, permanent fixture of the international jet-set crowd, and black sheep of the British royal family. He’s close enough in the order of succession for the media to love following him around, but distant enough that no one holds him accountable for his behavior. Of course, that’s only his public persona. What very few people in the world know is that, until recently, Darby was also the most effective deep-cover operative MI6 had ever employed. With his connection to Jack Phillips, he’s currently our primary suspect in the Olivia Phillips abduction.”
Jake was still trying to wrap his head around why Jes, Harley, and Misty knew who Darby was while he and the other guys didn’t when McKay’s comment about MI6 finally filtered through. Everyone else looked stunned, too.
“Wait. What?” he asked. “Arran Darby is a spy for the British equivalent of the CIA? How the hell does a billionaire playboy end up in MI6?”
McKay shrugged. “We don’t know much about how he was recruited. While getting into the files at MI5 and Interpol was shockingly easy, the firewalls at MI6 are a bit tighter. All we can say for sure is that Darby was recruited about fifteen years ago. While it might seem counterintuitive, it turns out his playboy persona was the perfect cover for him as a spy. He’s skiing in the Alps one week and partying in Shanghai the next. Showing up in Moscow for an oil magnate’s wedding is considered so mundane the media doesn’t even bother to report it anymore. Somehow, the man has become the most visible yet invisible person in the world. MI6 used that to their advantage. Based on the number of redacted files we found at Interpol, Darby is responsible for an unbelievable number of covert successes over the years.” McKay gave them a small smile. “Trust me when I say the entitled-playboy routine he puts on is all an act. In truth, the man is dangerous as hell and probably responsible for more deaths than any other active covert operative in the world.”
