“She broke through the sedation. The pressure in her brain is decreasing, so we’re lightening the medication. As much as this is disturbing, it’s a positive,” Eric explained.
“The white scars?” Jamie and Eric held their tongues, and Ian raised a brow. “I have her guardian's permission. I’ll ask Hunt.”
“They’re bite marks,” Eric said.
Ian’s expression turned to stone. “Something happened to her six years ago. Can those be that old?”
Jamie said, “No way to tell, but they’re not fresh.” He grabbed a new pair of gloves and exposed a fresh bite.
“Are there any more?” Ian asked.
Jamie crouched in front of him. “Ian, don’t torture yourself. Please.”
With tenderness, Ian leaned in and kissed her cheek. “You didn’t lose your chance.”
“She’s a fighter, Ian. Most people wouldn’t be alive after all this.” Eric pushed a few buttons on the monitor and noted the readings.
“Don’t give up, sweetheart,” Ian begged her.
All those years in unyielding places taught him to sleep when he could, so he catnapped in the chair. The unit’s sounds were softer at night, and the lighting was dimmed in an attempt to let the conscious patients find sleep.
The wall clock ticked to three AM. The heavy doors opened, and a mature, well-built bald man with coal-colored eyes approached the darkened room with panther-like grace and speed.
On instinct, Ian reached for his gun, and Eric and Jamie took protective stances around Cassie. The man held his hands up. “I’m Paul Yates, Cassie’s bureau chief.”
Ian stood down and examined the proffered identification, then extended his hand. “Ian Chase.”
Yates gave Eric and Jamie an assessing look. “Hmm, you boys aren’t typical nursing staff.” Both men smiled and introduced themselves.
“My flight was delayed twice. I came straight from the airport. Steve Naughton has been keeping me up to date. How is my girl today?” Yates moved closer to the bed. “How the hell did this happen? I read the after-action report. It makes no sense.”
After a brief update from Ian, Yates smiled. “Chase, I didn’t realize you moonlight as a security guard.” Eric coughed in a lousy attempt to disguise a laugh.
“I never should have approved the temporary assignment. Wilds wanted someone to fade into the woodwork for Bynum. Cassie was perfect for the assignment. My only trepidation was Greg Wilds—that SOB. There are tons of rumors floating around him, all involving female agents. No one will come forward.”
Ian frowned. He didn’t want to tell Yates about the evidence he was compiling on Wilds, but he did relay how she took down the man with the gun at the dinner. Yates’s face brightened as he pulled up a chair beside her.
“That’s Cassie. Her work ethic is incredible—and she’s brilliant. She could work for you.” Yates intimated he knew about the Eagle’s Talon teams. “She’s a firecracker, better than most male agents. Sniper-caliber shot. Did you know she speaks six languages fluently? English, French, German, Spanish, Italian, and Russian. I call her my chameleon.
“We were working a seedy adult nightclub. The owner had a penchant for stolen Mayan art and some interesting sexual predilections. Every attempt to get an undercover in fell through. No male agent made it farther than the front door. The females got in, but they got nowhere.
"Cassie and Sophie Garland, our technical analyst, did some heavy research and formed a plan to exploit his weaknesses. They discovered the man also had a penchant for beautiful, dominant women. Cassie walked into the club wearing a skintight black leather mini dress and escorting Steve on a leash. She caught his immediate attention. He took her home two nights later, or should I say she made him take her home? Two hours later, she had him hogtied and had recovered five million dollars in stolen artifacts. Another case, she walks into the office with two pink ponytails, fresh-faced, looking twelve. They looked like big bunny ears.”
Ian laughed. “Her brother Christian calls her ‘Bunny.’ I think the ponytail thing is from childhood.”
An intense pang of guilt struck Ian. She was amazing; he saw it at the dinner. It was his fault she would probably never work again.
“On the international stage, she works with Interpol. She owns every museum she enters. No fear in the heart of danger. If she has a fault, it’s that she’s a little impulsive. We had a long talk after one particular case where she followed a sixteenth-century gold sculpture to Mexico. It was stolen from Vienna and bounced around the world. The little forty-million-dollar figurine came into the possession of a Russian businessman. She was supposed to observe, confirm, and report.
"As you know, we have no jurisdiction there. I’m at home when Steve calls in an urgent report. She climbed into the limo with the target. He lost her—scared us to death. She was out of communication for forty-eight hours.
"Cassie charmed him like a little minx. Managed to tag the sculpture and get a message out. We couldn’t admit to the Mexican government she was there—much less ask for help finding her. We almost needed to call a certain independent contractor.”
The corner of Ian’s mouth twisted up.
“She didn’t break a sweat.” Yates closed his eyes and shook his head in distress. “Damn it. She almost loses her life on a run-of-the-mill protection gig. What did Ames want from her? It was supposed to be easy.”
Ian shrugged. “I think they had a previous connection. Did she ever talk about her past or her personal life?”
