Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2) (45 page)

“Yep.”

“Okay, let’s run with this. Assuming complicity in the three events—Morgan’s death, cyanide poisoning, and learning about OLIVER—we can rule out Eric Moss.”

“Correct.”

Doctor Drannen did a tug, cut the thread, and started on the next laceration.

“Doubt he poisoned himself with cyanide.” Zeus ignored the sharp in and out of the needle. “Plus, he was out of the picture when OLIVER was revealed to them.”

“We can also rule out Abe,” Ragno pointed out, “since he didn’t arrive in Paris until after Morgan’s death.”

“That leaves us with Charles.” Charles Beller, the cardigan-wearing assistant to the Amicus team.

“And Sam.” Ragno’s tone was quiet.

Her name in this context sliced through him. “No way.”

“Jigsaw will tell us.” Her fingers clicked on her keyboard. “Still want me to send an analyst down that path?”

“Jigsaw will get there eventually.” He paused. “May as well figure this out now. I’m one hundred percent certain that if there is a connection—the mole is Charles.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Aside from knowing unequivocally that Sam isn’t an option, I recall the night I gave the Amicus team the OLIVER database. When Barrows started talking about analyzing co-existing digital devices, I wanted to throttle him. Honest to God, that man should never be allowed to speak in public. He’s brilliant, but he’s got not one lick of common sense. He’d reveal his proprietary techniques without even realizing he was doing so. I shut him down that night by claiming the information was proprietary—but Charles was clued into the how, what, and why. He was more interested in the method, than in what OLIVER had produced for them. Charles asked whether a person could hide their calls from burner phones, if they turned off all their other devices.”

“Turning off devices doesn’t stop Jigsaw’s capability of tracking them. Devices constantly communicate with the grid, even when they’re off.”

“I know that. Charles didn’t. So I gave him misinformation and told him he was on the right track.”

“Clever.”

“Straighten your arm and turn it,” the doctor instructed.

Zeus adjusted his position. When Drannen nodded, he continued. “Well, I wasn’t thinking that Charles could have been a mole at the time. His questions were innocuous. I was just trying not to give information about Barrows’ technique.”

“So you’re thinking that once Charles saw OLIVER, and heard Barrows explain the methodology, he alerted Brier, Peterson, and Lawrence that Barrows and Black Raven had the capability to expose them?”

“Yep. And that’s why they wanted Barrows.”

“Okay.”

“Last set of fresh stitches,” Drannen said.

“Another thing, there might be telecom data contemporaneously with Morgan’s death and the cyanide killing, but I doubt you’ll see telecom data after we revealed OLIVER. I doubt he would've made a call to them after seeing what OLIVER could do with telephone calls. Besides, by then, we had all of his private phones. He wouldn’t have needed a phone to do that, either. He could have done it in the proceedings last Thursday, face to face with Brier. There was a lot of time for conversation.”

“Where is Charles now?”

“When Brier grabbed Sam, Abe and Charles were secured by their teams. They’re both safely in their rooms. In effect—Charles is under house arrest, compliments of Black Raven, though he doesn’t know it. Gabe’s on it.”

“Okay. I’ll get an analyst looking at this.”

Drannen stepped back. Zeus stood.

“Not so fast, sir.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know that. Sit. You’ve acquired an impressive collection of wounds over the last week.”

Zeus reluctantly sat down again to allow the doctor to examine the stitches in his forehead. He watched Drannen’s gaze shift to the purple bruise, where DIC’s men had slammed the rifle butt into his temple. “Did you black out from this?”

“No.”

“These stitches at your hairline are ready to come out.”

The stitches from the bombing outside the ITT trial in Paris. “Go for it, Doc.”

“Zeus,” Ragno said. “Secretary Lindall’s holding for you.”

DHS Secretary Lindall. “Stay on the line with us. This call could provide parameters on how much we ultimately reveal about Jigsaw.”

“Well,” Ragno answered, “you know my vote.”

“Yep. Same as mine. As little as possible. Results. Not method. Put him through.”

Zeus strategized with Ragno and the DHS Secretary as the doctor worked on him.

Twenty minutes later, Zeus stepped into the living room separating the two bedrooms. Sam, standing by the crackling fireplace as she looked into the flames, had the Black Raven flip phone to her ear. She wore exercise leggings and a sweatshirt. Her blonde hair was scooped up into an endearingly messy ponytail. Eyeing her hairline, he wondered why the long line of stitches wasn’t bandaged.

Fighting the urge to walk to her and wrap his arms around her, he reminded himself that he wasn’t going there. Not until she wanted it. Not until she owned up to the fact that she really did love him. He wasn’t going to budge an inch. Not going to touch her. Not going to kiss her. Not going to tell her he loved her. Even if it killed him.

Embrace the suck.

Yep.

Enjoy the hell out of this.

Chapter Forty-One

Samantha turned in Zeus’s direction as she said, into the phone, “Judge O’Connor, President Cameron, may I suggest an approach that is less extreme than granting a mistrial? One that I think I can persuade others to go with, if I have a few days to do some back-door advocacy.”

“Please do, Samantha,” President Cameron said. With a slight nod from Zeus, Jenkins left the room with the doctor and Rix. Zeus went to the refrigerator, opened it, and grabbed a bottle of water. Barefoot, he wore a Black Raven-logo’d long-sleeve T-shirt with jeans. His damp hair was finger combed. He looked sexy and as tired as she felt. If the night didn’t end with her curled in his arms, she was going to die.

In the video that Gabe had showed her, Zeus’s raw emotions had been front and center. Now though, he wore his usual preternatural coolness, giving every indication that she was going to have to work to earn the right to be in his arms.

Please. Give me a hint. Make me believe we can work out. No matter how afraid I am. Please. Look like the man in the video. Like you forgive me for raking you over the coals. Like you haven’t given up on me.

He held up the bottle of water to her, and she nodded, unable to tear her eyes from him.

Nope. Not a clue.

Focus.

You’re on the phone with President Cameron and Judge O’Connor, for God’s sake.

“First, Judge O’Connor can persuade the other judges to recess the proceedings until Monday,” she said. “The court can rule without formally convening, pursuant to ITT Practice and Procedure Rule 3.3(a)(6). Judge O’Connor, I believe that if you start making phone calls this evening, everyone is so rattled they’ll agree.”

“Yes, Samantha. I agree with that,” Judge O’Connor answered.

Zeus handed her the bottle of water and stepped away, leaving her enveloped in the fresh fragrance of woodsy soap and the pungent smell of antiseptic. A sharp reminder of his injuries. He went back to the refrigerator, took out another bottle of water, turned on the television, switched it to mute, and flipped through channels.

“Second, we can reconvene in London on Monday morning for a status conference,” Sam continued. “We can let all parties make their motions and build a record from there. That will give the court time to gather facts and decide where to go. In the meantime, I’ll work on a plan so that we don’t lose the consensus of the countries that you’ve built, Mr. President. Something that enables you to paint this proceeding as a political win in the war against terrorism.”

What, exactly, would that be?

Samantha had no idea.

Yet. I’ll sure as hell figure it out over the next few days.

But she knew one thing. If the ITT judges conducted official proceedings in the morning, a mistrial would carry the day. Zeus glanced at her, nodded, and gave a slight smile. Evidently, her phone call with the judge and the president was more interesting than the muted news show he had on the television but apparently wasn't watching.

“Sounds reasonable to me,” President Cameron said. “Ted?”

“Based on what happened in that conference room,” the judge answered, “it’s perfectly apparent to me that Hernandez has already been gathering facts that are relevant to the work of this proceeding. But I suspect only one of us on this phone call has the clearance to know the parameters of the job that Black Raven and Hernandez are performing. Sir?”

President Cameron’s chuckle indicated to Samantha that Judge O’Connor was one hundred percent correct. “Ted. Samantha. Off the record—we’re having a collision between the secrecy demanded by an extraordinarily sensitive project for which Black Raven has been hired, and the need to expose it in the ITT proceeding. Also off the record—I’ll keep the two of you informed as needed. Clearance is an issue that needs to be worked through. Understood?”

“Yes,” Judge O’Connor said.

“Understood,” Sam echoed.

“On the record—for the ITT proceeding, I like Samantha’s suggestion that we buy time. I don’t like the approach of terminating the proceeding with a mistrial and I’m worried that if proceedings reconvene tomorrow morning, Samantha is correct and a motion for a mistrial will carry the day. Ted, start making those phone calls. Keep me informed.”

As the president and Judge O’Connor ended the call, the click as she shut the flip phone drew Zeus’s eyes to her. For a long moment, they stared at each other. The quiet of the room hung heavy between them, broken only by the sound of the crackling fire.

“Your plan sounds solid.” He broke the silence with a casual nod. As though the only thing he could think of to say was about business.

As though he isn’t the same man who had professed in that darn video—made when he believed his hours were numbered—to love me for the rest of his life.

“President Cameron seemed to like it.” She wondered how long she and Zeus could go on talking about work. Their phone conversations since Ana’s rescue—and his departure from the clutches of the TRCR—had been short and to the point, necessarily. Now, she was acutely aware, and would have been even without Gabe’s prodding, that it was time to talk about something else.

If they ever would.

But I’m afraid.

Work was easier to talk about. “That theory that you threw out to Brier—”

He gave her a slow shake of his head. “Not just a theory.”

“How? OLIVER?”

“OLIVER’s just the tip of a highly classified iceberg. Most of which will never see the light of day. Black Raven has been working on this project with the DHS and NSA.”

“Looks like our worlds have officially collided, Hernandez. President Cameron’s comments just suggested I’ll have clearance to know the details of your project soon. One way or another, I’m going to figure out how to get your conclusions into the record of this ITT proceeding.”

“We’ll see.” He gave her a nonchalant shrug and took another sip of water.

“No details till then?”

He shook his head. “Not one.”

“Not even the name of the project?”

Dark stoicism greeted her query. “Not even that.”

“Then in due time.” She shuddered. “Brier, a puppet master for terrorist acts. Pulling the strings for Sullivans of New York. You have the evidence to prove that theory?”

He nodded. “We’ve just received confirmation that Charles Beller worked with them.”

She drew a deep breath, as though she’d been punched. “Oh. No.”

Millions of questions swirled through her mind—about work. But work would always be there. The one thing that she now knew mattered more to her than work was standing right in front of her, and until she started talking, he was going to pretend that work was all they had in common.

Hernandez-style stoicism means he damn well isn’t going to make the first move. Remember—he still thinks you’re marrying Justin.

She had to really talk to him—about the reason why she’d run into another man’s arms—and it scared her as much as she’d ever been afraid of anything. Given what had just happened with Brier in the conference room, that said a hell of a lot.

“You feel okay?” he asked, studying her as he sipped his water.

No. I’m terrified, and I’m afraid to admit it.

“I’m fine. Thanks to you.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Look,” she started, “I’d like to talk to you about…what happened between us.”

“Go ahead. I’m all ears.”

She drew a deep breath, and the scent of blood and alcohol reminded her of an urgent problem. “But first I have blood in my hair. I realized it after the doctor finished with me. I can’t work the spray nozzle without wetting the stitches, which the doctor told me not to do. I saturated the bandage when I tried. Can you help me get it out? After that, we can talk.”

“Let’s talk first. You just managed to have a conversation with the leader of the free world and sounded perfectly fine.”

“Come on, Zeus. I can’t tolerate the idea of blood in my hair.” Nor could she tolerate the coppery, stale smell that she couldn’t seem to avoid with each breath. “It’s sickening.”

She gave him a slight smile, in an effort to give him a damn clue as to where she was going. It did nothing to remove his frown, but the intense burn in his eyes told her he was interested. “And our conversation is going to end very differently than how my conversation ended with President Cameron and Judge O’Connor.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You think?”

“Yes.” Because, thanks to Gabe, she’d seen the video of the man who she loved telling her he never would have given up. A fact that she wouldn’t have known by looking at him now.

He nodded and gestured for her to walk ahead of him. In her bathroom, she handed him a bottle of shampoo, sat on the floor by the tub, rolled a few towels as cushions, then stripped off her sweatshirt, exposing her black lace bra and snug camisole. In case he had any doubt as to her intent, she stripped off the camisole, leaving on only the sheer lace black bra.

“Dammit, Sam.” His voice was gravelly and harsh. His eyes were on her boobs. Her nipples responded to his gaze, as though it was a warm caress. “Not such a good idea.”

“Just get over it and wash my hair, Hernandez. I want to have a real conversation with you, about us.” Glancing into his eyes, she saw a bit of hope steal some of the darkness. “And if I smell blood for one second longer, I’ll be sick.”

“Before we go any further, I need an explicit answer from you. You’re not marrying McDougall, are you?”

“No.”

“My radar tells me there is a really strong possibility he’s gay. Am I right?”

Her heart thudded against her chest. The look in Zeus’s eyes told her he didn’t need an affirmative answer from her. “Justin is my dearest friend. He’s like family to me. He stood by me throughout this whole ordeal, and he encouraged me to be honest with my feelings for you, knowing there was only one possible ending. He has been as much of a champion of you as my grandfather, at great personal cost to himself.”

“Why doesn’t he just come out of the closet? Everyone seems to, these days.”

“He hasn’t been willing, mostly due to fear of how his family will react. Plus, privacy concerns. He’s wanted to develop a career based on merit, without sexuality being part of it. His rationale is antiquated, I know, but I’ve supported him because it’s what he felt he had to do. Just like he’s supported me in my decisions. Even now.”

“Supporting a friend in his quest to keep his sexuality private is a hell of a lot different than marrying him and being his cover.”

She punched his rock-hard bicep. “Marriages based on the bonds of friendship are made all the time. Don’t judge.” As she braced her hands on his chest, a fresh waft of bloody odor caught in her breath. “Come on, Hernandez. Please help me get this blood out of my hair. Otherwise, I’m going to be sick. I know you want to talk, and for once, so do I. But I’d prefer to do it without puking all over both of us.”

Not waiting for a reply, she leaned back so that her shoulders were against the outside of the bathtub, removing the ponytail holder so that her hair fell to the inside. As she slipped the ponytail holder onto her wrist, he knelt on her left side, turned on the water, and used the sprayer and the gentle touch of his fingers to carefully work lather into her hair from her hairline, then down. The fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle, combining with his woodsy scent and the heat his body emanated, enveloped her. It was like crawling into a cocoon that was supposed to be her life. She leaned closer to him, enjoying the feel of his hard body against hers in the tight space. Too soon, he turned off the water.

“Wait. You’re not done. Conditioner’s on the counter by the sink.”

“You’re killing me.” His tone was serious, his words almost hoarse.

She opened her eyes. His face was over hers, kissing distance away. Afternoon shadow hazed his jawline, and Samantha ached to run her fingers over the bristles, grip him behind his head, and pull his face down to hers. Not moving, she held his gaze. “It’s going to be worth it. I promise.”

He scowled. Getting to his feet, he stared at the toiletries on the bathroom vanity. “This it?” He held up a bottle.

She nodded. “Can you comb it through my hair before rinsing it out? Please.”

“This is fucking torture. I hate being so close to you. Hate it with every fiber in my being. Dammit, Sam.”

But he only hated it because he was torturing himself with not touching her intimately. And he would soon know that he had no reason to hold back.

“I told you this would be worth it.” She shut her eyes, trying to calm her racing heart. “I said, please. And I know you don’t hate it.”

Resuming his position, wedged between the wall, the tub, and her, he turned on the water, worked conditioner into the wet strands, combed it through, and rinsed her hair with warm water. He stood and handed her a towel. When she would have stood, he sat on the bathroom floor next to her, gripping her hand so she couldn’t move.

She pulled her knees to her chest as she started towel drying her hair.

“Okay. Hair’s clean,” he said. “Start your conversation about us. And it better be worth it. I want real words from you. A real explanation regarding why you thought it was a good idea to marry another man—whether he’s gay or not I don’t give a damn—when I was there, handing you my heart on silver platter. Why you let me walk away seven years ago without even an argument. Why you were relieved when I walked away.”