Under the pretense that Whittaker still trusted Ackermann, he’d ordered his subordinate to escort Jarrett back to San Francisco for debriefing, which would give Jarrett the perfect opportunity to question and arrest him.
Harold chugged the last of his coffee and heaved himself up. “This Whittaker may not think you need help—and you may agree—but you’re getting it from me.”
She lifted her chin. “And me.”
“God save me from distractions.”
“Worry about yourself, son. I’ll watch over Marissa and have your back if needed.” He removed a slick silver Beretta from his chest holster and straightened his jacket. “I’m just a retired cop, and I’m sure as hell not some stuffy fed, but I’m still a helluva good shot.”
“Dad, I don’t—” The doorbell chimed throughout the house, freezing the words in his mouth. Shit. He jerked Marissa against him as she tried to leave the kitchen. “Stay here. I’ll answer the door.” The warmth of her body invaded his. He feathered his thumb over her bottom lip and kissed her cheek. “If I come inside with Ackermann, don’t make a sound. Stay hidden. Got that?” After she nodded, he headed toward the door, but his father caught his arm. He looked back at the lieutenant. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m proud of you, no matter what happens. You’ve proved me wrong in so many ways.”
Jarrett swallowed hard. He’d never thought to hear those words.
Harold stuffed his gun back in its holster and offered him his hand.
He pushed it aside and hugged him. A shudder rolled through him as his father wrapped his arms around him. Wow. The tough, burly cop actually returned the embrace. Jarrett would’ve lost that bet. His sharp scent of old leather and stubbornness—if stubbornness had a smell—had always twisted Jarrett’s stomach into a pretzel. But now, a steadfast, soothing vibe radiated from the man. He pulled back and gripped his father’s shoulders. So many words burned on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t find his voice.
“You got this.” Harold clapped him on the back.
Damn right, he did. Jarrett grabbed the miniature tape recorder from the table—he’d brought it with him when he fled California—and left the room. Once he shrugged into his jacket, he pushed therecordbutton and stored the device in his pocket.
The doorbell rang again, and a hard bang shook the solid wood door.
He clicked off the safety on the Glock 22 and tugged on the jacket hem to better conceal the weapon holstered at his side.All right. Here goes nothing.
Chapter Ten
“What took you so long?” Special Agent Charles Ackermann rubbed his gloved hands together as Jarrett stepped onto the porch. His salt-and-pepper hair stuck up at odd angles, as though he’d run his fingers through it too many times. White air puffed from his mouth. “You’re supposed to callmewhen shit goes down, and I’ll notify the SAC. It’s not the other way around.”
Jarrett closed the door behind him. So much for pleasantries. “I called you before that wannabe assassin Bill tried to kill me, but your phone went straight to voicemail. Afterward, I had to call Whittaker. I needed help, and you were AWOL.” He bit back a smile. Finding out what had happened from Whittaker must’ve raked across Ackermann’s pride like sandpaper on a bleeding wound. Served the bastard right. “Where have you been?”
“Busy.” He snorted. His brown eyes were sharp enough to cut glass. “You’ve pissed off dear old Whittaker, and I had to listen to him bitch. Thanks for that.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I got your messages, Whittaker’s too, but things were so hectic around here that I couldn’t respond,” he lied with ease. He kept in regular contact with Whittaker but ignored Ackermann’s calls. “The cops have been sticking their damn noses where they don’t belong, so I’ve been playing offense.” At least that was the truth.
