Rowan, bookbag dangling from her slim fingers, closed the door quietly.They’d taken this small, light-filled apartment not for economy’s sake, but because a house wasn’t safe.He’d been feeling a little antsy for a while and Rowan had started to look pale and drawn again, no matter how many bookstores or lectures they visited.
Her dreams had gotten progressively worse, too.He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in two months.
Of course, the fact that he liked to calm her down the old-fashioned way probably had something to do with that.Oh, well.Anything for the cause.
He pulled the revolver’s hammer, knowing the click would resonate through the man’s skull.Tall, dark-haired, reasonably fit and experienced, the intruder still had no chance against him.Sigma had simply trained Del too well.
Besides, the agent on the floor, whoever he was, was a deadhead.He couldn’t sneak up on two psions.
A small table lay on its side, the day’s mail scattered over the floor from the quick, vicious fight.The man gasped, probably winded from the shot to the solar plexus.Justin wondered how he’d gotten in.Probably the kitchen window.
He better not have knocked over the African violet.Rowan loves that plant.
“Unarmed!I’m unarmed!”The man almost squealed with fear.A quick, thorough search proved this to be true, and five minutes later their visitor was trussed with duct tape to a solid kitchen chair.Dark hair, leather bomber jacket, jeans, and a pair of good boots—he looked like miserably out of place here.
Nobody in Montreal wore a bomber jacket, for Christ’s sake.Not at this season.
Del saw with relief that the African violet was still on the windowsill, but the window had been expertly jimmied.The kitchen lay under gloomy grey daylight, blue dishtowels set just so, breakfast dishes drip-drying in the rack.Rowan hugged near the door, staring at the man with wide luminous eyes under a short, chic cap of sleek dark hair.
She was still fragile, and jumpy.If this sonuvabitch had set her back Del was going to have to see if he could get a little creative.
Del tossed her the man’s wallet.She caught with a sweet, natural grace, flipped it open.“Barry Holgrave, NSA.Looks real.”A toss of her head, still not used to short hair.I look completely different, she’d said mournfully, staring into the mirror.
That’s the point,he’d replied, and kissed her.A good memory, one he liked.“What’s the NSA doing here?”He looked down at the man, aching to wrap his fingers in the intruder’s hair and pistol-whip him a bit.“You’ve got thirty seconds to convince me I shouldn’t kill you.”
Barry was old enough to have been in the spy game awhile.His eyes widened, fine fans of wrinkles spreading from the corners, and his haircut was far too butch.A shoddy job of undercover.His Adam’s apple bounced as he swallowed, wincing when Del tightened his hold.
Rowan’s hand dropped, weighted with the wallet.“It’s about Sigma.”She shook her head.The green sweater made her skin even paler, and the blue scarf loose around her pretty throat heightened the contrast.Water clung to her hair and shoulders, little jewels of sleet.She had largely lost the circles under her eyes, the nervous small tremble in her expressive hands.Sometimes she even laughed.“Loosen up on him a bit, sweetie.”
You make a great good cop, you know,he told her privately, watched the gleam of amusement touch her eyes but not her solemn, beautiful mouth.She’d put on a little weight; not nearly enough.“I think we should kill him.”He used the soft pleasant tone he knew was the most terrifying.
Mmh.And you make a good bad cop.The amusement in her tone was tight and thin, a veneer over adrenaline and the sudden plunging of her heart.
Easy, sweetheart.We didn’t mark anyone on the street outside.We’ve got plenty of room to jump if we have to.He felt her reach for reassurance, answered silently with all the comfort he could.
“They’ve shut it down.”Holgrave almost choked in his eagerness to talk.“Sigma’s shut down.There were closed Congressional hearings, Anton’s at a maximum security prison for the criminally insane.All sorts of shit about what he was doing with the agency started to come out and everyone started to scramble, from the top to the lower echelons.Goddamn mess, still not sorted out.”He took a deep, racking breath.“In the living room there’s a briefcase.It’s got documents.Proof.”
“What does this have to do with us?”Del eased up on the man’s hair, just a fraction.
Rowan tilted her head.No activity outside, nothing I can feel.Want me to go check?
Her heart hammered; he could feel it in his own chest.I want you to stay right where I can see you, angel.Not letting you out of my sight, remember?
Oh yeah.Slow, lingering.
He had to swallow dryly, though his attention didn’t waver.Damn, the woman was dangerous to his self-control.
“Rehabilitated,” Holgrave gulped so hard his throat actually clicked.“You’re rehabilitated, your identities wiped clean.We want you to work for us, legitimately.No Zed, no electroshock, no torture.”
“And if we don’t want to?”Del felt his entire body go cold.It had to be a trick.Hadto be.
“Then you’re free, so long as you don’t make waves or work for a foreign power, free as birds.That’s the deal.It’s all in the briefcase.”
Barry’s eyes were as round as plates.He wasn’t trying to struggle, but he did crane his neck to look at Rowan, pleading.He thinks she might stop me if I get crazy and decide to do a little murder.
“It’s true,” Barry said suddenly, shifting in the chair.Del hadn’t been gentle in taping him down.
Del uncocked the hammer, let go of ol’ Barry.“Ro?”
