Dangerous Assignment (Aegis Group Book 4) (28 page)

Of the ten men, five were down. He knew where two were. Zach had disappeared and two more had to be in the shed.

He rose, keeping the gun up, and crept down the hill. The blaze of the burned out car was starting to die down. The sound of the flames made the back of his neck prickle with memories of Libya and pulling Abigail out of the burning building, halfway dead already.

His knee-jerk urge was to go to her. Protect her. But he couldn’t.

He had to find the gas.

She took care of the bomb.

He got the gas.

Something moved at the corner of the utility shed.

He swung to his left and fired. An answering blast of muzzle fire blossomed, but the shot went wide by maybe thirty feet.

Luke quickstepped forward toward the injured man and the shed, skirting the building by a wide berth.

The injured man rolled over on his back, hands grasping his chest.

If this were a war zone, he’d let the man bleed out or kill him as an act of mercy. But this wasn’t a war zone. It was an urban environment and whoever this man was, he deserved to face the justice system, not Luke. The decision struck a discord within him that made him pause.

It was the right decision.

But he didn’t like it.

Fuck.

He knew the logo on the man’s jacket.

He was a guy for hire.

Another figure stepped out of the shed, gun up.

Luke had no time to react.

The gun went off.

He took a step back, bracing himself.

The impact hit him square in the chest, knocking all the oxygen out of his lungs.

But the vest stopped it.

The man rushed Luke. Luke swung his rifle like a bat, knocking the smaller man off his stride. Luke didn’t aim, he simply fired. At this close range all he had to do was hit the guy. The second man went down and didn’t move.

Luke kept the rifle up and edged into the shed.

Something rammed into him from behind, knocking Luke forward. He whirled, gun up, and fired. The shot missed its mark, a third man with a handgun. Luke swung with the rifle, cracking the Asian man in the jaw with the butt of the rifle, and kicked his legs out from under him. He went down hard.

Luke crossed to the yellow bag, yanking the zipper open.

Three silver canisters with biohazard stickers plastered on the outside sat among pieces of foam.

He swallowed.

It was time to get out of there.

A fourth man yelled something, but his voice was drowned out by a blast so loud it shook the building. Sheets of the corrugated metal fell down, landing a few feet away. One side of the shed crumpled in. Luke went down hard, covering his head, wrapping his body around the cans to shield them as debris flew overhead.

Abigail.

Luke’s heart stopped.

He shoved up, cradling the bag in hand, and stared out through what had once been a wall, and on the other side…the field.

The field where Abigail had been.

Where the bomb had gone off.

But…it was supposed to be a nuclear bomb.

He should be dead, right?

Luke stumbled out, picking his way over the rubble and into the charred grass. He swallowed down the taste of bile as the scent of charred flesh reached him.

“No…”

He shook his head.

It didn’t make sense. The how and why faded away as he stumbled out onto the field, some of the grass still smoldering.

The picnic table was gone.

A small crater sat where the cooler once had.

“Abigail?” He turned in a circle, searching the trees for her. “Abigail!”

He screamed her name until he was hoarse.

No, no, no!

She’d been there. He’d caught a glimpse of her dashing out to the bomb.

They were supposed to catch a flight home. Have dinner with his mom. Sleep in his bed. After this, they’d have a chance.

“No, no—Abigail? Abigail!” He stared at the flames still flickering, eating up whatever hadn’t been destroyed by the initial impact.

She couldn’t be gone. She just couldn’t.

He continued staring, until time blurred and everything else faded away.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end…

“Hands on your head. Now!”

“Down on the ground!”

The voices snapped him out of whatever trance he’d fallen into. His feet burned from standing on the charred grass.

Luke turned, still mostly dazed. A line of officers faced him down, guns up.

He set the bag down gently and kept his hands up.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.”

He lowered himself to his knees, and then his stomach.

This wasn’t how they were supposed to end.

23.

The news played the
same damn thing over, and over, and over again.

Luke swigged more beer. His mother sighed and said something to…was it Marco who’d come over? He’d stopped paying attention to the parade of people in and out of his apartment after the admiral had checked on him. No one else mattered.

Abigail was gone.

“We take you now to the FBI for new developments on this botched terrorist attack.” The news anchor stared out of the TV, straight at him, her gaze condemning him for not saving Abigail. As if she knew he’d failed her.

SSR Ryan Brooks stood on the steps of some federal building, a few sheets of paper in his hands. Microphones from every station pointed up at him, flashes of light going off in his face.

The man looked grim but otherwise composed. It was a hell of a change from the guy who’d hauled Luke out of a police cruiser and nearly decked him a few days ago. But that was then, and this was now.

“We have positively identified the last of the remains at the detonation site.” Ryan ducked his head. He did that when he didn’t like what he was about to say. It was probably why they put the black guy, what was his name? B-something. Usually, they had him on TV and not Ryan. “The bodies were that of Mossad agents working in conjunction with the FBI and CIA counter-terrorism units. Agents Yael Cohen and Zacharias Levy died trying to disarm a bomb. With the help of other American agents, they stopped what would have been a tragic attack—”

“What?” Luke roared. He sat up. The beer slipped from his fingertips. “They’re giving that son of a bitch credit for this? Fuck no. No!”

Two images, one of Zach, and the other of a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman he didn’t recognize stared back at him.

That…wasn’t her. Or was it? Maybe when she was younger…

He stood, swaying as the alcohol in his system took out his sense of balance.

“That’s not her.”

“Luke…” His mother’s worried voice couldn’t tame the rage.

“That’s not what happened and they know it!” He jabbed his finger at the screen.

This was what they’d meant when they had him sign all those forms. They’d been hiding the truth. Smoothing it over. Dirtying Abigail’s name by saying she and that piece of trash were trying to save people.

Abigail had saved people.

Zach had just wanted to kill them.

“Hey, hey—man.” Marco stepped between him and the coffee table. “I got this, Linda. Why don’t you take a nap?”

“I don’t know.” She wrapped her sweater around her.

Luke’s rational mind screamed at him to stop. Alcohol had torn their family apart and created a monster out of his uncle. What was he doing to her? His precious mother, who was all he had left in this world…

The pain of losing Abigail—again—was too great.

“Hey.” Marco smacked Luke’s cheek none too gently. “Look at me.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the spirit.” Marco slapped Luke’s shoulder. “We’re going to my place. Ian and Felix are bringing the hard stuff. You want to get shit-faced? You do it there, okay? You’re scaring the piss out of your mom, and if you were sober you’d kick your own ass. Come on.”

Luke nodded.

It was true.

He couldn’t remember a time after turning twenty-one when he’d drank this much. Usually a beer did it.

He’d put away a case since… When had he started?

Marco steered Luke out of the apartment and to his truck.

He stared out of the window, fully aware he was spiraling out of control.

“She’s gone, Marco.” His breath fogged the passenger window.

“I know, man. I know.”

It wasn’t fair.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like death.” Abigail lowered herself into the armchair, mindful of the burns on top of the additional broken ribs, her broken nose, the shoulder that’d been wrenched out of socket. She felt like a doll that’d been ripped apart and put back together again.

“You look fine.” Baron clicked a pen.

“Fuck you.” She glared at him.

The hot shower had been a mistake. Her muscles were looser, but the burns throbbed. It’d be weeks before she could move freely. She hated being cooped up.

“I have something for you.” Baron sat down on the coffee table in front of her, a thick folder in his lap.

“I don’t want it.”

“Look.” He opened the folder.

Despite knowing better, she looked.

She knew what birth certificates were. But this one was different.

She frowned and reached for it, then the next piece of paper.

Abigail Washington.

Born August 12, 1982.

A driver’s license.

A diploma from Princeton.

Pieces of her life, though altered.

She flipped through them, one after the other.

Bank records.

A list of former addresses.

Even a medical chart, detailing perfectly normal reasons for her scars, the multitude of injuries she’d sustained during her years of service.

She liked to rock climb, which was a neat way to explain the plates in one arm and some of the more unique markings. She’d been enlisted, briefly, and received a medical discharge.

It was a life that read close to her own narrative.

“It’s taken some doing, but it’s all there. If you want it.” Baron gripped the edge of the coffee table, watching her.

“What? Why? How? My face is everywhere. No one will believe this.”

“Not your face.” Baron pulled out his phone and accessed a major news network’s site. “Remember this girl?”

“Yes.” The woman was a younger agent. Abigail—no, Yael—had spoken to her briefly years ago.

“She died six weeks ago. It was an accident. We…”

“You used her body in my place in the park. After Zach knocked me out.”

“No. The agents in place grabbed you and then him. They left enough of your DNA to make a positive ID after the C4 detonated. Yael—Abigail—I’m trying to give you a life. This was the only way I could do it. Your name, someone who looks enough like you, someone already dead. The family gave us permission to use her image. Let the world think you died with her.”

“You don’t mean that. There’s a catch in here, in all of this.”

“No catch.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He sighed and leaned forward, his hands clasped.

“I’m supposed to convince you to stay. To use this as an opportunity to go into deep cover. Come back to us.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Because you’re right. I’ve taken too much from you. Given you no choices.”

“So you’ll take the choice from me now, too?”

“Would you come back?” Baron stared at her with such wide-eyed hope she almost wanted to say yes.

“No.” The answer was out of her mouth before her brain could engage.

“See?” He smiled, but it was tight, without feeling.

“Where’s the catch?”

“The catch is…you don’t work in intelligence. Anywhere. For anyone. You do and…”

“I get it. To take
this
I have to leave it all behind.”

“It’s a new start for you.”

One that terrified her. All Abigail had ever known was covert work. How would she live as one person? There would be no secret agendas, no one telling her what to do, no safety net. It was…terrifying. But wasn’t this what she’d wanted?

“You could go back to Luke. I’m sure his people will cover for you, make the story real.”

She slapped Baron as hard as she could with her left hand. The crack of it sounded incredibly loud in the quiet cottage.

Baron’s jaw hung open, his eyes wide.

“You don’t get to say his name,” she growled.

Baron touched his jaw, wiggling it back and forth.

“I deserved that,” he said.

“Just that?”

“I deserve worse.”

She stood, needing to move. Anger and rage dulled the pain, letting her pace, allowing her brain to think.

Her career in intelligence was over. She was done being used—but what did she do? Where did she go?

Abigail’s heart said to go to Luke…but hearts lied. The smart thing to do was take her history and degree, and find somewhere to start over. But she wasn’t Abigail without Luke.

Her hands shook, and her fingertips went cold.

Would he want her? After everything she’d put him through, would he take her back?

She grabbed the folder, slid it under her arm, and turned for the door.

“Where do you think you’ll go?” Baron asked.

“Where do you think?” She stared at the cheerful red door. If she stepped outside, there was no going back. “It’s probably not smart, but…I’ve never followed my heart before. Maybe that’s been my problem all along. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have trusted you.”

Yael was dead. All that was left was Abigail.

Luke didn’t want to be awake.

He didn’t want to be alive.

His bladder had needs.

He cracked one eye open.

Light streamed in around the blackout curtains, which meant it was probably early afternoon or later.

Fuck, when had he come home?

Drinking at Marco’s had turned rowdy. He was pretty sure they’d broken at least one piece of furniture before Luke had passed out.

Christ, he shouldn’t drink.

He pushed the comforter down. Paper crinkled. He frowned and felt around until he touched a piece of crumpled paper.

A note from his mom.

God, he was an awful son.

He squinted at the words, his still-fuzzy brain puzzling their meaning out. All that really mattered was one:
groceries
.

Luke tossed it onto the nightstand and stared at the ceiling.

He’d thrown a pretty epic one-man pity party for the better part of a week. He’d been more drunk than sober for most of it. All the booze did was make him angry—at Mossad, at Baron, at the media, at himself. Nothing could dull the pain inside of him.

The answer wasn’t in a bottle, which he knew. But what were his options?

There was an awfully fine bourbon in the fridge he’d brought home with him…

No.

That wasn’t the solution.

Today he’d face the mess he’d made on his own. First, he’d shower, then he’d do dishes, and when his mom got home, he’d apologize. He’d grovel. Because now that Abigail was…gone…Mom was all he had left.

He pushed the covers back and roll-fell out of bed none too gracefully. A quick piss and a splash of water on his face made him feel more like a man than the gallons of beer he’d drank. By the time he got out of the shower he knew this was the right path, even though the floor pitched and rolled underfoot. Nothing would fix the hollowness inside of him, but at least he didn’t hate himself, too.

The front door creaked.

Damn, he hadn’t gotten the chance to do the dishes yet.

“Mom?” Luke stepped into some sweatpants before padding out into the living room. “Give me a second and…”

He stopped two steps into the living room.

The woman standing on the tile entry was not his mother.

The dark circles were worse. The bruise around her neck had colored out to greens and yellows. The arm brace was new. Her skin, in places, glistened with ointment, probably due to the burns that were scabbing over.

“Y-you’re dead.” His stomach dropped.

Was he still drunk? Was this a nightmare? Or was he hallucinating?

This wasn’t real.

“You’re dead,” he said again.

He stepped between the arm chair and sofa, sinking down to cradle his head in his hands.

How many screws had knocked lose?

“Luke…”

Christ, his hallucinations were speaking to him now. How drunk was he?

The coffee table was still littered with the evidence of his drinking.

He took his arm and swept the whole mess off, onto the floor.

“No. You’re dead. I saw them…they picked
pieces of you
out of a God damned tree. You’re dead.” He sat up, and watched the figment of his imagination step slowly around the arm chair.

If he were imagining her, why did she look so beat up? Why wasn’t she in a black, sinful dress? Why would he picture her like this?

“Luke, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It wasn’t me.”

“Are you real?” His voice broke.

She stepped between him and the coffee table, her movements slow and stiff. She held out her hand.

Was he so crazy that he’d interact with his imagination? What if he tried to touch her and she disappeared? He wanted her back so bad he couldn’t bring himself to lift his hand.