Beneath the Surface (28 page)

CHAPTER

37

H
e watched her through the bedroom window. Did she realize she’d left her curtains open? Not completely, just far enough to give him a teasing glimpse of creamy bare flesh. Did she do it on purpose or was it an innocent oversight? It was mistakes like this that could get a pretty woman like her killed. She stepped out of view and returned a moment later wearing nothing but a black lace bra and matching panties.

Did women really walk around their houses like that? Of course they did in every guy’s fantasy, but this was real life, and every action caused a reaction—a reaction that was now happening in his pants. He reached down and adjusted his hard-on. Movement in the shadows a few houses down the street caught his attention. What the fuck was that? He lifted his binoculars and trained them on the brush, watching as the man dressed in black slowly made his way toward Penelope Cantrell’s house.

Interesting . . . Did she know she had a stalker? With the way she flirted with him and flittered around her house half-naked, he wasn’t surprised she’d attracted some unwanted attention. Perhaps that was the reason for the escort home this afternoon, and the snide remark about not needing a babysitter.

He was crashing some other guy’s party . . .

The man heading toward her house right now wasn’t a professional. His movements were too rushed and uncoordinated. He was unaware he was being watched; his sole focus was on that bedroom window when it should have been on the guy who had a Glock with an Osprey 40 silencer trained on his head. One twitch of his finger and Penelope’s problems would be over—for about sixty seconds, because he was a hell of a lot worse threat to her than this wannabe.

The low growl of an engine had her secret admirer putting on the brakes and slinking back into the shadows. He cut a glance behind him and saw Dukes of Hazzard heading their way. Fuck . . . this guy was a real pain in the ass. He was starting to wonder if this woman was worth all the effort. As much as he wanted to enjoy a little private time with Penelope Cantrell, he wasn’t willing to jeopardize his mission.

Bo Duke climbed out of the car and wasted no time banging his fist against the door. He could feel the tension radiating off the guy all the way over here. Testosterone scented the air. “Pen, I know you’re in there. Open the goddamn door.”

The familiarity with her name confirmed his suspicion that those two had a history. His gaze shot to her bedroom window. She was gone. Her stalker was still there though, hiding behind an evergreen, watching Bo Duke pound on the door. He couldn’t tell if it was panic or anger driving the man—or maybe something else, because Penelope opened the front door, wearing a thin black robe that hung down to midthigh, and the guy had her pressed up against the door before he could even get inside.

The guy’s body was up against hers, his mouth devouring her the way he wanted to be right now. One of his hands fisted into her hair possessively, and the other slipped inside her robe to capture her breast. She wasn’t fighting him off. Instead, her arms slipped up around his neck.

What a whore . . .

The guy didn’t care he was giving the neighborhood a show, and just maybe that was the point. Bo Duke was marking his territory. Penelope belonged to him, and the only way anyone was getting to that woman was through him. It was a risky stance, because he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. The same couldn’t be said for her stalker, though. The spineless bastard was slipping away, back into the shadows he’d come from.

As he weighed the quandary of sticking his hand into someone else’s cookie jar, his cell went off, alerting him to a message.

Feds moving in. Arriving in Denver in the morning. Will have the woman’s location soon. Be ready to move.

Shit. He’d known it was only a matter of time before the Feds found her. By killing Tate, he’d traded one set of problems for another. He was out of time. Once they got her into protective custody, the game was going to change drastically, and he needed to come up with a plan to get Quinn before that happened. This wasn’t just about finding her; this was about stopping a witness. If the Feds got their hands on that SD card, this would become all about damage control and survival, because they were all going to be fucked.

Getting into position now. Let me know.

Well, that answered that. Penelope Cantrell would live another day. Perhaps when this was all over, he’d come back and pay her another visit . . .

As he fired up the minivan and began to pull away, his cell went off again with another text.

FYI: Tate’s not dead.

Quinn’s hand gripped Asher’s so tightly, his fingers were starting to go numb. Each step they mounted to the entrance of the Denver Police Department ratcheted her tension until she was a veritable ball of anxiety beside him. Fuck, he didn’t want to do this—didn’t want to put her through this. If he could bear this burden for her, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

If he thought there were someplace he could take her where she would stay safe, they’d be on the next plane. But the bottom line was Asher wasn’t a runner. It wasn’t in his blood, and he’d learned a long time ago the best way to deal with a threat was head-on. The last thing they needed was to be hunted by a madman and the FBI. There were too many unknowns at this point—too many variables. But one thing was for certain—they’d be better off aligning with the Feds than making them their enemy. Did that mean Asher was going to just hand them his trust? Hell no, but Jax was vouching for them, so he could at least meet with the guys and hear what they had to say.

As they approached the glass double doors, he pulled Quinn to a stop and bent to look her in the eyes. She’d hardly spoken two words on their drive to Denver. Her walls were back up, and reinforced with galvanized steel. Looking at her now, it was almost impossible to believe this was the same woman who’d come apart for him so sweetly, and he couldn’t help but feel she was slipping out of his grasp.

Quinn’s trust meant everything to him, and he knew what it was costing her to give it to him now, because every fiber of her being told him she did not want to be here. Not that he blamed her. Finding her roommate dead had been a terrifying experience for her, and seeing something like that would leave a hell of a scar. It was no wonder she didn’t trust the government or anyone affiliated with it. Hell, look how long it’d taken him to get her to open up and trust him. And now he was putting it all on the line. He swore to God if those agents fucked this up . . .

“Quinn, it’s going to be all right.”

She met his eyes and nodded, but looked anything but convinced.

“Remember what I said. We’re in this together. I won’t leave you.”

She nodded again.

He wasn’t used to this side of Quinn and much preferred the feisty, sassy version of the woman. Hell, he’d even take the shrew right now—anything but this frightened, insecure female. He wished she’d tell him where her head was at. Then again, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. It wouldn’t change what they had to do, which was walk through these doors and have a sit-down with federal agents.

He briefly pressed his lips against hers and then opened the door. He was glad to see his brother waiting for them, and even more glad when he passed them through security without disarming them. He had his Sig in his waistband and a Glock strapped to his ankle. Quinn wore the Beretta he’d given her. They got some strange looks from the desk jockeys as they passed by, which told him Jax must not share much about his personal life, because these guys were rubbing their eyes like they were seeing double.

“It’s nice to see you again, Quinn,” Jax greeted her as he led them down the hall. “I’m sorry it has to be under these circumstances.”

“Me too.” The smile Quinn gave him lacked her usual luster. “I’d much rather be playing corn hole with your brother and eating your burned burgers.”

An unexpected chuckle rumbled in Asher’s throat, and Jaxson’s top lip twitched in amusement. Now there was his girl . . . putting on a brave face for his brother. She was rallying her moxie before they walked into this meeting. That she didn’t feel the need to pretend with him spoke volumes about her trust in him. Only he knew how hard this really was for her.

“They weren’t that burnt,” Jax retorted, playing along with the attempt to ease the tension they were all feeling right now. “And so would I. Believe me. A cold beer and corn hole sound pretty damn good right about now.”

He led them to an office that felt a lot like an interrogation room. A rectangular metal table sat in the middle of the room with a large one-way glass on the opposite wall. There were two men in dark suits already sitting at the table, each holding a foam coffee cup. One agent had close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He looked to be pushing fifty, while the other couldn’t be any older than Asher’s early thirties. A brief flash of surprise registered in their eyes when Asher and Quinn walked in, reminding him how annoying it was to go places with his brother. It didn’t last long though, because the moment Quinn stepped out from behind him, both men rose to their feet, all attention fixed solely on her.

“Ms. Summers . . .” The older agent greeted her, holding out his hand. “I’m Special Agent Tim Meadows. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She stepped forward and shook his hand. His partner was next in line. “Special Agent Maxwell Kellen . . .”

Both men made the same introduction to Asher. He shook their hands and took a seat beside Quinn in the two empty chairs across from them; Jax stood in his periphery.

“I appreciate you taking the time to meet with us,” the older man began. “We’re very sorry about your roommate.”

The guy was upfront, direct. Asher respected that. Quinn didn’t look so convinced.

“It hasn’t been easy.”

“I’m sure it hasn’t. When we arrived at the apartment—”

“Wait. You were there?” Quinn interrupted. “You saw Emily?”

The agent shook his head. “By the time we got there, the police had already come and gone. As soon as the query came in from the attorney general to investigate your story, we went to your apartment looking for you. We thought you’d been taken. Look, we want to help you, Ms. Summers, but in order to do that, we need you to help us.”

Special Agent Meadows was good . . . his voice was calm and mellow, reminding Asher more of a hostage negotiator than an FBI agent. Now his partner sitting beside him? That guy reeked of “federal officer.” Asher knew what Meadows was doing—trying to gain her trust and align himself with Quinn. If the guy thought it was going to be that easy, he was in for a rude awakening. Quinn had her quills out.

Leveling the agent with a cold, hard stare, she asked, “What do you want from me?”

That was his Quinn . . . prickly as a porcupine. He was catching a chill just sitting beside her.

The other agent chimed in. Perhaps it was his turn for the “bad cop” routine. “For starters, you could give us the SD card you told the attorney general about.”

He didn’t have the patience the other agent did—whether because of youth or temperament, Asher couldn’t be sure. But diplomacy was not high on this guy’s priority list.

“The pictures aren’t any good,” she told them. “It was too dark . . . they didn’t turn out.”

She wasn’t lying. They’d looked at the photos together yesterday, and although the images taken in the darkness were graphically disturbing, it was impossible to see the men with any amount of clarity or detail.

“You’d be surprised what IT at Langley can do, ma’am.” Meadows gave her an encouraging smile. “Would you mind telling us what happened when you were in Haiti? What you saw?”

Quinn cast Asher a questioning glance, silently asking him for his opinion. Should she trust these men with the truth? He really wasn’t sure, and only time would fully answer that question. But he trusted Jax, and right now that would just have to be good enough. He nodded his head and took Quinn’s hand beneath the table, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

It wasn’t any easier for him to hear Quinn’s story recounted a second time. By the time she finished describing in horrific detail the events that led her up to this point, including Emily’s murder and the attempts made on her own life, there wasn’t a man in the room unaffected. Righteous anger resonated off every one of them. Even the stoic, hard-ass Agent Kellen was looking at Quinn with compassion, and maybe even a bit more concern than he ought to.

She concluded her story by adding, “So if you’re not trying to kill me, then who is?”

“That’s a good question,” Agent Kellen said, suddenly the chatty one. “And we’d like to help you try to figure that out. Until we do, we’d like to take you into protective custody.”

No. Fucking. Way. “She’s already in protective custody,” Asher cut in, leveling the agent with a territorial glare. “Mine.”

Meadows spoke up. “With all due respect, Mr. Tate, Ms. Summers has been compromised here. Whoever is after her has gone through a significant amount of trouble to silence her. Whether or not we have the SD card, she’s still a witness and a pivotal factor in this case. Right now we have no leads to start tracking this assassin down. Eagle Ops is a low-profile organization. They work very hard to stay under any government radar. It isn’t going to be easy finding a link in their chain. And once we do, I’m betting they’re not going to be too cooperative. With the information Ms. Summers is providing, I’m hopeful something will turn up, but . . .”