Jackson reached out and patted her shoulder. “Most people aren’t trained to deal with gunfire. Your instincts told you to run, so you did. You’re going to want to talk to a professional after this. It can help.”
A professional. Yeah. A shrink would have a field day with her mind. Pippa tried to smile for the agent. “Thanks.” Another guy, the one kind of in charge of the scene, caught her eye. It was the same guy who’d been at Malcolm’s house with the dog, which was now following the guy around, sniffing the ground once in a while. The man Mal had told to go away. “Why is he here?” She frowned and focused on Malcolm.
“He’s my boss,” Mal said, looking big and strong in the swirling lights. Heroic, even. “He was late meeting me and the lawyer.”
His boss? That guy didn’t look like a government paper pusher. “What’s his name?” Pippa asked, before she could stop herself.
Agent Jackson looked over her shoulder. “That there is Angus Force. Special Agent Angus Force. Former FBI and currently with ... somebody. Not sure who.” She glanced over at Malcolm. “I’d heard you’d retired from active duty.”
“I have,” Malcolm said, his expression earnest. Too earnest?
The agent glanced at Angus Force where he stood talking quietly to a guy who had ATF across his jacket. “I heard he retired as well. Got lost in the middle of nowhere and in a bottle.”
“He’s just finishing up some business,” Mal said quietly, leaning his shoulder against the side of the ambulance. His green eyes cut through the chaos of the day. “Neither of us is active. I’m basically pushing papers just to build up a pension.”
“Hmm. Neither of you are coming across particularly retired.” Jackson looked him over and then returned her attention to Pippa. “What kind of antiques do you like?”
Pippa blinked. “Pink and green Depression ware.”
“I like Belleek,” Trixie piped up, her eyes still haunted. “Always wished I was from Ireland.”
“Where are you from?” the agent asked.
Pippa lowered her chin and tried to focus. This woman was smart. They had to be on their game. “I’m from Seattle,” she said. “So is Trixie. We met right after high school.” God, she hoped Trixie remembered their story.
This one anyway.
Chapter Eleven
Mal kept impatience at bay as he parked his truck and strode up the sidewalk to his house. Angus Force parked his truck and stepped out with his dog, while Clarence Wolfe lumbered out of the passenger side. They had insisted on following him home.
He glanced over to see Pippa’s kitchen light on. Though he’d wanted to drive her home hours before, she’d been released from the scene long before he had.
Because he was most likely the target. Or the secondary target, if Comstock was primary.
It had started raining again, and darkness was beginning to fall. He could still smell the blood and hear the screams. It’d be a lousy night. He unlocked his door and shoved his way inside. “You guys don’t need to babysit me.” His right arm trembled, and his vision kept going gray. This was going to be a bad one.
Both men ignored him, following him inside. He waited for the dog and then was unable to stop himself from locking the door. Yep. Hypervigilance. One of the classic signs of PTSD.
Force dropped onto the floral sofa and wiped a hand across his forehead. “What a screwed-up day. We’re trying to stay under the radar, and here we are in the middle of a goddamn shoot-out.” He leaned back, strain clear on his face. “Got the report. The bug was on Comstock’s phone.”
Thank God.
Wolfe kept going through the archway to the kitchen. “Where’s the booze?” he asked.
“Bottom shelf of the pantry,” Mal said wearily, sitting in the matching flowered chair. His head hurt, his hip ached, and his damaged leg felt like it was on fire. “The FBI guys did a good job of keeping the press away.”
Force opened his eyes. “Did you see your girl? How she kept herself angled away from any cameras?”
“Yeah,” Mal said, energy popping throughout his exhausted body like a shaken-up soda ready to explode. “I also noticed that she stayed in character. True to the Pippa Smith identity the entire time. Didn’t slip up once.”
Wolfe strode in with three glasses—full glasses—of Jack Daniel’s in his hands.
“Wait—” Force started to sit up, but before he could get far, the dog had leaped up and swiped one of the glasses between sharp teeth. “Damn it, Roscoe.”
Roscoe set down the glass almost gently and slurped up half the contents in one big gulp.
Wolfe looked down at the rapidly drinking dog. “What the hell?”
