Abruptly, reality dawned. What an asshole he was being. He hadn’t just fucked up, he was a dangerous loose end. He wasn’t being cut off. He was being cut down.
Swept with panic, Owen felt his self-preservation instincts kick in.
Slamming down his glass, he dashed into the bedroom, grabbing his duffel bag and shoving all his essential things inside. Money. Passports. Weapons.
He wiped his cell phone and threw it into the garbage. He’d get a new one, find a new place to live—somewhere Scott wouldn’t find him.
He’d barely reached the living room when his apartment door flew off its hinges, and the terrace’s sliding glass door exploded into a thousand shards of glass.
Three men dressed in black, wearing ski masks and goggles and carrying MP5s, burst into the room, tossing a flashbang grenade inside.
Explosive noise. Blinding light.
Owen screamed, squeezing his eyes shut and clapping his hands over his ears.
The Zermatt team moved like a well-oiled machine. Before Owen could regain his bearings, his arms and legs were bound with black zip ties, and his cries of pain were silenced by the duct tape that was slapped over his mouth.
The Tiger Team had just prepped the portable stretcher they’d brought to ready him for transport, when, out of nowhere, two separate men burst in through the entrance door, pistols raised.
Scott’s goons.
They barely got into the apartment.
As they blinked to clear the smoke burning their eyes, the Tiger Team whipped around and took them out. They raised their MP5s and double-tapped each of Scott’s men, then sent single bullets through their heads.
The men fell like stones.
“You’re lucky we got here first,” one of the Zermatt guys muttered to Owen, just as he felt the prick at his neck. “Nighty night.”
With their drugged captive out cold, the Tiger Team strapped him to the stretcher. Swiftly, they donned fake vests that made them appear to be Montenegro emergency services. Then, lifting the stretcher, they stepped over the two dead bodies and headed toward the stolen ambulance that would take them to the Zermatt jet.
26
FBI New York Field Office
26 Federal Plaza
Manhattan, New York
Wednesday, March 22, 7:45 p.m.
Hutch sat at his desk, irked and on edge. He hadn’t been particularly productive all day, not after spending a frustrating, sleepless night—the first since Casey had reinjured herself—back in their bed.
She hadn’t told him a thing. She’d been too wiped out for another interrogation. Instead, clad in an oversize nightshirt, she’d curled up against him, her face buried in his chest, her sleepy voice murmuring her pleasure at having him beside her. He wholeheartedly agreed, grateful that she’d healed enough to make this possible. But even though he’d kissed her until she dozed, then wrapped his arms around her, he was terrified he’d aggravate her inflammation by falling asleep and pressing too close or squeezing too hard.
Not to mention, his noncompliant body was throbbing for hers, uncaring of the fact that a longer wait was on the horizon. And he was ripping pissed at himself. Dammit, he was in his late thirties, certainly not a kid anymore. Yet he felt like a horny teenager, desperate for sexual relief from the woman he loved.
By dawn, he couldn’t take it anymore.
He’d gotten up, taken an unpleasantly cold shower, and then called Sophie as he dressed. Fortunately she’d been available to arrive and take care of Casey by six a.m., and could remain with her until her replacement, Brenda Hill, arrived at five p.m. to take over.
Which meant that Hutch was able to get a jump start on the workday and delve further into his investigation for however long it took.
Unfortunately, none of his or SA Barkley and his team’s leads were panning out. It was as if they were all banging their heads against the wall. Hutch’s already sour mood was evolving into outright anger. He was starting to actually envy Forensic Instincts, who were happy to color outside the lines. Being restricted by using only legal methods was frustrating as hell. And his questioning session with Casey had only reinforced what he already suspected: he might have curtailed FI, but that didn’t mean they weren’t finding subtle ways to circumvent his orders.
He was just about to get himself a cup of shitty coffee when his cell phone sounded, indicating that a text had come through. He glanced at the unknown number and frowned. Normally, he wiped messages from anonymous sources like this without even sparing them a glance.
Something told him not to do so this time.
