Operation Proof of Life (12 page)

Under his seat, Michael opened the door of a storage compartment and pulled out a small pillow. It was stored there in case he wanted to sleep or rest on his many trips up and down the George Washington Parkway. He tried once or twice to relax in the car, but never found it habit-forming. Setting the pillow at the opposite end of the bench seat from Brigit, he released her seat belt and guided her onto her right side.

She resisted for a minute, seeming confused and in pain. “It’s okay,” Michael murmured and, a few seconds later, she burrowed down and went back to sleep, the rabbit’s foot still clutched in her hand.

Her BlackBerry slid out of her pocket and landed on the floor. Michael picked it up, hit a couple of buttons and received a warning message. The handset was locked. He played with it for another minute without success. Dragging out his own digitally encrypted cell phone, he dialed his best tech support guy.

Del Hoffman, at CIA headquarters, answered on the first ring. “The Great and Mighty Michael Stone. What can I do for you today?”

“I need to hack into a BlackBerry that’s been upgraded.” Upgraded in Del and Michael’s world meant titanium-style encoding and
007
-capabilities.

Del had once been a college student arrested for hacking into the NSA’s database. When Michael had caught wind of the kid’s capabilities, he’d done the required tap dance to get the charges reduced and immediately put him to work for the CIA. “Are you bringing it to me?”

“No. I want you to talk me through it.”

“Uh-huh.” Del seemed less enthused. “How much time we got?”

Michael checked his watch. “Thirteen minutes give or take a few depending on traffic and how long the owner stays asleep.”

“O-kay.” The sound of fingers hitting keys echoed in Michael’s ear. “You know how I love a challenge, sir. Keyboard locked?”

“Yes.”

It only took six minutes to unlock the phone and another to get past the three layers of encoding. “Pay dirt,” Michael said when the email opened for him.

“Oh yeah.” Michael could tell Del was air-pumping his fist. “That’s a record even for me. Anything else?”

“That should do it for now. Thanks, Del.”

“Anytime, Your Lordship.”

Michael laid his phone on the seat as he read Brigit’s last email.
Lie back and think of England.

He glanced at her sleeping on the seat across from him. Her right hand had relaxed and the rabbit’s foot had slid out of it onto the seat.

She’d been shot, had her apartment set on fire and been implicated in the kidnapping of a U.S. Senator’s daughter. Her picture and story had been running on CNN and Headline News all day, half of America convinced she was a victim and the other half convinced she was a criminal.

Truman’s words rang in Michael’s head.
You walk out of here with him…you’re risking your life.

She’d been burned from SIS. Burned, in this case, was stripped naked and left for dead. Michael picked up the rabbit’s foot and laid it back in Brigit’s hand.

She was going to need all the luck she could get.

From the looks of things, he was too.

Chapter Twenty

In the dark bar, Peter stewed as his image was posted on CNN. While the volume on the TV in the corner was muted, he knew the newscaster was rattling off his vital statistics and the facts she had about his possible involvement in Brigit’s shooting.

The serious brunette was replaced by a long wide-angle video taken by a press member showing Brigit at the podium. As if someone called her name, she shifted, looking behind her and then,
bam
, her body jerked and fell. A man, football-player big, hauled ass to get to her and dropped behind the podium in full-blown protection mode. A few more seconds of tape showed flowerpots exploding and other people running for cover. The brunette reporter returned to the screen, a photo of Brigit now above her shoulder next to Peter’s.

He pulled the brim of his baseball cap down further on his forehead. Fifteen minutes with a razor and his quick-change kit, and he looked little like the man on the television. But every law enforcement agency in the country was looking for him because they believed he pulled the trigger. Shot one of their own, if that’s what Brigit was to them.

The D.C. area was swarming with police and feds. That’s why he couldn’t take the chance of running. Moira had completely screwed everything up, and he had to sit tight under law enforcement’s nose and wait for the right opportunity.

Another video played on the screen, this one of Brigit’s apartment ablaze.

It wasn’t enough Moira had tried to kill Brigit with a bullet. When she’d failed at that, she’d decided to try and burn her alive. What Moira hadn’t realized was that the only person in the apartment when she’d set it on fire was a sleeping Eleanor Pennington. Because Peter knew Brigit would be looking for the girl in the vicinity of the Pennington home, he’d purposely taken Eleanor to Brigit’s apartment. Setting Brigit up for the kidnapping had been worth the risk. It would have thrown suspicion on her and taken it off him.

But then Moira had done something he’d never thought possible. She let an emotion direct her actions. Her anger had taken control of her common sense. The only thing Peter wondered was who Moira really wanted to punish.

In the end, she was the one punished. He’d followed her from the apartment to a rundown gas station. When she’d disappeared into a restroom around back, he’d gone in after her.

If she lived from the beating he gave her, she’d be sure never to cross him again.

Arlington

Brigit noted three things upon entering Michael’s home. It was bright, comfortable and smelled delicious. Another piece snapped into the code she’d been breaking on the man known to all as Deputy Director of Central Intelligence.

They entered through a service door from the attached garage into an ultra-modern kitchen with steel appliances and marble countertops. A muscular Rottweiler rushed forward, and Brigit froze as it lowered its head and glared, its nose quivering as it picked up her scent. Michael raised a finger and made a shushing noise and the dog sat at her feet, his stubby tail suddenly wagging.

“Will he take my hand off if I try to pet him?” she asked.

“Only on my command.” Michael gave her a nod of encouragement. “His name’s Pongo.”

Brigit dropped her hand to let the dog smell it. She was cold and groggy after the ride, and completely, one hundred percent embarrassed. How could she have fallen asleep in front of Michael Stone of all people? “Hi, Pongo.”

His stub tail wagged furiously on the tile floor, and he head-butted her hand, still sniffing. His enthusiasm made her troubles recede. She scratched behind his ear and he leaned into her fingers, making a low rumble of approval in his throat.

Michael punched buttons on the security alarm faceplate. “He likes you.”

Brigit sighed and thought of her childhood pet, Midi. “I had a dog once when I was a little girl. She was just a mutt but I loved her heart and soul.”

Even in the fading light of the autumn afternoon, the tall windows invited sunshine in and it bounced off the dark wood cabinets. The kitchen’s old-world details further softened the glinting steel. An arch of real earthen bricks above the sink echoed the curve of the exhaust fan over the large stove. The breakfast bar’s edges were trimmed in beautifully turned wooden scrolls, like old-fashioned barbershop poles.

She had to find out what plug-in air freshener he used. The kitchen was redolent with the smell of roasted chicken and fresh baked bread. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since…when?

Brad exchanged a look with Michael before shimmying past her and disappearing into the house. From the armed officer at the front gate to the dog to the motion detectors atop floodlights in the four corners of the property, there was no doubt the deputy director took security seriously. Who could blame him after he’d been held captive by terrorists earlier in the year?

Inside, the house was a security haven as well. Every window sported lithium-powered security contacts. Every door had laser receptors. She wouldn’t have been surprised if there were cameras in the ceiling lights regardless of his earlier assurance there weren’t.

He helped her slide off her running jacket and hung it, and his coat, on brushed silver hooks by the back door. He rubbed a hand over the bloody spot on the nylon jacket. “I’ll have Marie take this to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”

“Marie?”

He was now eyeing her shoulder. “My cleaning lady.”

If Marie took her jacket to the cleaners, she wouldn’t have anything to wear outside in the cold. All her clothes had been damaged in the fire. “Please don’t impose on her. I’ll just give it a rinse in the sink.”

The dumbest thought struck her and was out of her mouth before she thought it through.
Tomorrow
… “I’m staying overnight?”

“Probably.”

Michael gave Pongo a thorough greeting, including rubbing his chest and patting his back. He pulled a dog treat from his jacket pocket, and Brigit couldn’t help but chuckle to herself. Who knew the DD of the CIA carried dog treats in his suit coat?

“Would you like to wash up?” Michael pointed to the far side of the kitchen at an arched doorway. “There’s a half bath down the hall.”

Her legs were weak and she was shaking slightly, but she nodded. Cradling her left arm with her right hand, she drifted through the kitchen and found the bathroom. She shut the door behind her and sagged against it. Was she really going to spill everything to Michael Stone? Her family secret? Her status with SIS?

She knew she wasn’t. She was going to come clean about a few pertinent facts to get her off the police’s radar as well as the FBI’s, but that was it. Family secrets weren’t for outsiders. Her status with Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service wasn’t either.

Brigit washed her face as best she could with her right hand and ran her fingers through her hair, pushing some behind her ears and wishing she had a hairband. She needed a shower, a lot of shampoo, a few bites of food and a long rest. Then she would give Michael the facts, carefully weeded from her cache, and snag her freedom.

Freedom. An interesting lightness filled her chest. She hadn’t felt it since the day her mother died. All the years of guilt about accidently killing their mom, and trying so hard to replace her for Tory’s sake, had left Brigit tired and numb inside. She’d spent most of her time being whatever her dad and Tory needed and failing miserably. They didn’t need a substitute. They needed Roberta.

Maybe that’s all Peter had needed too. If their mother hadn’t died in the fire, would Peter have changed course?

Her tired brain was too fuzzy to sort out the could-have-beens. It was shutting down on her. All she could think about was returning to the warm, delicious-smelling kitchen and throwing herself at Michael’s feet in exchange for food and a few hours on his sofa.

Leaving the bathroom, she walked back toward the kitchen, taking a short detour to peek in his study. He was in the process of remodeling. Shelves of books, a flat-screen TV, a grandfather clock, and the largest mahogany desk she’d ever seen filled the room, but plastic sheeting covered most of it.

More pieces of his code snapped into place. He was a tricked-out traditionalist. A suave warrior. Her attention fell on the contents of a coffee table. He was also a Redskins fan. Even that made perfect sense.

In the kitchen, Michael was sorting through the refrigerator. His suit coat was off and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. A tattoo on the inside of his left wrist caught her eye. It looked like a fancy compass. She perched on a stool at the expansive marble breakfast bar and dropped her chin into her hands to watch him.

Without a word, he moved around the kitchen, filling a pot with water and setting it on the stovetop. As the gas fire heated the water, he took a couple of mugs and a box of tea bags out of an overhead cabinet. “Earl Grey or English Teatime?” he asked nonchalantly, as if he served suspected felons tea at his breakfast bar on a regular basis.

“Earl Grey,” Brigit answered with the same measured casualness.

A few minutes later, hot tea warming her stomach, she couldn’t help but relax a smidge as Michael pulled a container from the fridge. Using a soup ladle, he transferred the contents of the container to two hefty soup mugs and popped both in a large microwave. The smell of roasted chicken intensified. Brigit couldn’t help herself. “Smells delicious.”

“My housekeeper is also a good cook and rather motherly.” He looked a bit sheepish as he dug in a drawer and pulled out spoons. “She leaves me food all the time. Even if she was a terrible housekeeper, I’d keep her just for that.”

“Smart. I would too.”

They shared a smile and Brigit’s pulse spiked.

She expected him to take up where the detective had left off interrogating her, so when he sat beside her at the breakfast bar and helped her with her napkin without saying anything, she gave a mental sigh. Maybe he’d at least let her eat before he started asking questions. Eating was good. If only she could figure out a way to use her right hand instead of her left. The first few tries, she seemed to spill more than she got in her mouth.

Michael watched with a bemused glint in his eye. “Would you like a straw?”

“I can’t suck up the fat noodles through a straw. Give me a minute. I just need practice.”

And she did. After a couple more tries, her right hand realized it had to perform and the spoon consistently went into her mouth instead of her chin. Michael ate his soup in silence and the lightness in Brigit’s chest bloomed again. A cup of tea and a bowl of homemade soup on a cold day from hell were a small form of bliss.

When they finished, Michael cleaned up the few dishes, taking his time washing the bowls and then drying them and putting them away. Brigit sat and watched, content to do so.

She should have been figuring out her game plan. How to admit her relationship with Peter without throwing more suspicion on herself. How to get her hands on some pain meds. Her arm was throbbing and now a burning pain, much like the initial bullet wound, was spreading into her muscles.

Michael returned to the stool next to hers, his blue-eyed gaze examining her shoulder as if he could feel the throbbing himself. “Looks like you need a fresh bandage. I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared down the hall and soon she heard footsteps above her. When he returned, his arms held a box of gauze, bandages, saline solution and a tube of antibiotic ointment.

“If I didn’t know better,” Brigit said, “I’d think you knew something about taking care of bullet wounds.”

He stiffened and she regretted referring to his encounter with the notorious Fayez Raissi. Being taken hostage in your own home, having a block of C4 strapped to your chest and taking a bullet for your troubles was the stuff nightmares were made of. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have referred to your…experience.”

Opening a sterile gauze wrapper, he ignored her apology, which made her feel even worse. “You’ll have to take your shirt off.”

She saw the opportunity to lighten the moment and took it. “Most guys find it easier to get me out of my clothes if they add the word please.”

The hand with the bandage paused in midair before he set it down and met her gaze. The flash of what she’d seen at the hospital was back. His eyes did that smolder thing that made her stomach freak. “I’ll remember that.”

Her stomach continued doing flips. Breaking eye contact, she was suddenly self-conscious about him seeing her in nothing but her bra again. Extra self-conscious that she needed to ask for his help getting the shirt off since she could no longer lift her left arm.

Stubbornness bloomed in her chest. With difficult, painful movements, she used her right hand and arm to maneuver the shirt up her belly and tug it off her left arm.

“Here,” Michael said, moving so close to her his body heat warmed her inside and out. “Let me help you.”

The softness of his voice, the true concern in his gentle touch, set fireworks off in her lower stomach.

A hot cup of Earl Grey on a cold day was heavenly. Michael Stone’s hands on her body, his warm breath on her skin, was ecstasy.