“He isn’t any other agent!” she got out between gritted teeth. “He’s Evan Bowers. Killer of Olin.”
Mack looked like he wanted to sigh. “You’re being unreasonable. We reviewed the investigation of Olin’s death, remember? And I don’t think he was any more at fault than anyone else on the team.”
He’d never told her that. “Are you saying Olin and I had a part in his death?”
“No. I’m saying things happen on an op. Things we can’t plan or predict. Some things that are almost too big to come back from. Don’t let this be yours.” He eyed her. “Lives depend on you thinking with your head, not your heart.”
He was right. She didn’t want to admit it, but she had to. “Fine. He works with us. Are you happy?”
He shook his head. “Not until I see you change your attitude.”
“You’re a pain, you know that? I don’t want to change my attitude about him.” She knew she was sounding like a spoiled child pitching a tantrum, but this was about the worst thing she could be faced with at the moment. At any moment really.
“And I don’t want terrorists to kill people, but they do,” Mack said, somehow his slow Southern accent making the words sound even more horrific.
His comment brought everything back to the matter at hand—truly the worst thing she could be facing. She could overcomeworking with Evan. She might hate every minute of it, but to stop murderous terrorists, she could suck it up and accept his help.
She took a long breath and let it out. Took another, fisted her hands, spun and marched back to him.
“You’re right, Agent Bowers,” she said with the most professionalism she could muster. “Our team does need your help, and we’ll be happy to have you work the investigation with us.”
His mouth dropped open, and his gaze clung to her like an unwanted cobweb.
“You can start by showing us the container.” She waited for him to turn before letting out a seething breath.
She would do the right thing here. She had to. But as she trailed him into the container, she had to wonder why doing the right thing was rarely, if ever, easy.
CHAPTER 7
EVAN STOPPEDjust inside the container door and watched Kiley as she scanned the interior. She had no idea how beautiful she was. None. Even now. She looked tough and commanding in her tactical pants and FBI windbreaker, but he knew underneath the law-enforcement façade that she’d once been shy, sweet, and socially awkward, all bundled up in an amazing package.
She backed into him, and he reached out to steady her. She bolted away from his touch, but his heart thundered over her nearness and the sweet pear-and-vanilla scent of her perfume. How pathetic was that? She couldn’t stand the sight of him, and yet he was still attracted to her.
She took a few extra steps away from him, her face a mask of indifference. “Tell me what we have so far.”
He resisted blowing out a breath and explained the container’s setup, making sure he didn’t get locked in those enticing green eyes. Not even when she cocked her head at the mention of solar panels, her eyes narrowed in a cute inquisitive look he’d always found endearing.
He’d had a thing for her from the moment he’d first met her and had been thrilled to work an assignment together in Atlanta. They once had great chemistry, even if she’d never admitted it. Especially not after the tragic op where things had gone south. She blamed him for Olin’s death and could barely look at him, but that didn’t mean Evan could turn off his feelings just like that.
She shifted her attention to her teammates, and he noticed the pencil holding her thick hair in a sloppy knot. She’d always said the hairstyle served two purposes. To hold her hair up, as she thought the look made her appear older, and to have something to write with at all times. He found it adorable that she continued the practice.
“You’d have to be motivated to risk weeks at sea in this thing,” she said. “Any number of things could’ve gone wrong.”
Mack planted his hand on his sidearm. “That kind of motivation speaks to the level of the threat.”
“As do the players themselves,” Evan said. “We aren’t dealing with some suicide bomber taking out a train station or church. Men warranting such luxury accommodations are higher up the network, and they’re here to carry out the impending big attack.”
“Agreed,” Kiley said, but her eyes still simmered. “Who’s in charge of forensics?”
Evan introduced Philips and stood back to listen to Kiley’s questions. She raised the same ones Evan had asked, and Philips, who’d moved to the other loft, patiently answered them.
“I want the usernames for any games on the video consoles ASAP.” She handed him a business card. “Overnight the consoles to the lab and put me as point of contact. I’m lead on this investigation, so everything goes through me.”
“Actually, I have an agent taking evidence to Quantico in a few minutes.” Philips rubbed his eyes. “If you want, she can take the consoles as well, but I’m not sure it’s that urgent since there’s no evidence terrorists actually communicate via video games, right? Just stuff that movies are made of.”
Evan watched Kiley carefully to see how she reacted to being questioned by a forensic tech.
“There’s also no evidence that they don’t,” she said matter-of-factly as if the question didn’t bother her in the least.
