Brody's Vow (Colebrook Siblings Trilogy Book 1) (10 page)

He sucked in a steadying breath, fought to banish the fantasy of her stretched out beneath him, naked, her legs wrapped around his neck and those elegant hands digging into his bare shoulders as she writhed beneath the stroke of his tongue and begged him for more.

As the minutes passed she grew more pliant, leaning more of her weight into him. She quieted, her breathing turning slow and even in the quiet room.

He gentled his movements, simply smoothing his hands up and down her back, hard as hell and dying for more yet strangely content to hold her this way. She gave a tiny twitch and that was when he realized she was asleep.

He stilled his hands on her back, the warmth of her sinking into his palms and chest. He might not know her very well but he knew that someone with her training and background wouldn’t fall asleep in his arms unless she trusted him on a subconscious level. The knowledge humbled him and caused a strange tightening in his chest.

He’d set out to teach her a lesson, give her a taste of her own medicine.

Instead he’d wound up falling deeper under her spell.

Tino cut the wires on the last security camera mounted on this side of the building’s exterior and climbed down the ladder. This entire job was a pain in the ass but it had to be done. He’d called in a lot of favors just to get this far—just to find the place where his CIA contact thought Trinity might have been staying prior to killing Salvatori.

The moment Salvatori’s death had hit the media airwaves, Tino could feel the invisible noose tightening around his throat. More and more people in his network were finding out what had happened, and they all knew he had been assigned as Salvatori’s head of security.

His rep was in tatters. He’d been up all night trying to get a lead on Eva Gregorivich… Or at least find out who she really was and who she worked for.

Now he finally had a name.

Trinity Durant. Worked as a contractor for various government agencies. This time, it was the CIA. Or at least, he was pretty sure about that.

Salvatori’s boss had tasked him with finding out who was gunning for them. He wasn’t dropping the ball on this one. More than restoring his rep, this was about survival. If the Big Boss didn’t get what he wanted, he might order a hit on Tino. And as good as he was, he didn’t stand a chance against all the Mob’s resources. He couldn’t run, not without being found, and he didn’t have the money to start a new life in some country overseas anyway.

He slipped the wire cutters back into his tool belt. Didn’t matter if anyone in the building saw him. The security company uniform gave him the perfect excuse to be here and allowed him the freedom to move around in plain view.

It was the potential eyes watching him from the shadows that concerned him.

He could feel them out there. Someone was watching him and he was betting it was someone sent here on direct orders from the Big Boss. It made the back of his neck prickle.

Impatient to get answers, Tino headed up to apartment 4C. The solid brick building on the outskirts of D.C. had been built in the late 1800s and renovated with significant upgrades a few years ago, including a security system for both the building and each apartment.

The new-looking carpet along the hallway silenced his steps as he walked to 4C. At the door he paused to check for anti-tampering devices. If this Durant woman was a pro used by government agencies, then he wouldn’t put it past her to set up some tricks like that.

Using a few tools from his kit, he jimmied the lock open and turned the knob. Easing the door open a few inches, he waited, but nothing tripped his internal radar. He stepped inside, shut the door and immediately got to work disabling the alarm system.

Once that was done he scanned the apartment.
Not a bad place to call home while you’re on a job
. He sneered as he took in the shiny wood floors and granite countertops in the kitchen.

Within a few moments of searching around though, something was off. There were no hints or indications of any kind that anybody had been staying here. No coats or shoes in the hall closet. No dishes in the sink or dishwasher. No food in the fridge. Nothing left out on any of the tables.

He headed to the bedroom, his pulse beating faster. The bed was untouched, perfectly made. Again, there was nothing in the closets. He stalked into the bathroom. Empty. Not even a bar of soap in the shower. Nothing in the trash can. Had she even freaking
been
here?

A mix of frustration and anxiety churned in his stomach as he pulled out his phone and dialed his CIA contact. “It’s me,” he said, fighting back his annoyance. He’d used up all his leverage with this contact to get this location, and now he wondered if he was in the wrong damn place. “I’m at the apartment. There’s nothing here. Literally, nothing.” He rushed back out to the bedroom and began searching through the drawers in the bedside table and dresser. Empty.

Dammit. He could lift some prints or search for a hair sample for DNA testing in order to verify that she’d been here, but he might not get anything and it did jack for him at this point because he didn’t have the time to wait around. He needed answers
now
. “Are you sure she was here?”

The man gave an irritated snort. “I’m sure. That’s all I can say. She was staying there up until last night. I don’t know for how long though. Maybe a week.”

If she had, it did little good for him now. “And you’re sure she was working alone? There’s no one else she would have called for backup?”

“My source was clear about her working alone for this job, on a contract basis.”

Tino didn’t dare ask him who the source was, or what agency he worked for. He’d pushed the limits of this connection already. Even if his inside guy was lying, there was no way to know for sure at the moment. “Yeah. Thanks,” he muttered, and hung up. “For nothing.”

Standing there in the middle of the bedroom, he ran a gloved hand through his hair. He’d been so sure he’d find something here. Some clue that would help him track her down, because he didn’t see any way she would have been able to get here and clear it out before skipping town.

He didn’t think she would have risked coming here last night and wiping the place down, not with her injury—she had to be injured from the car wreck at least. So there should have been something here for him to find. Had the FBI or CIA or whatever come in and done a clean sweep last night? To erase any possible threads connecting her with them, and to Salvatori’s death?

Desperate for answers, for something solid that might give him a lead, he checked under the bed, looked for cracks or gaps in the floor, walls and ceiling that might suggest a hiding spot where she’d stashed something. He checked the oven and microwave. The barbecue on the tiny patio.

Nada.

Stepping back inside he put his hands on his hips, mind racing. There was no way she could have cleared this place out alone last night after crashing into that lake. She’d have been near hypothermic, probably concussed if not worse, and on the run. He couldn’t see a professional risking showing up here when it was only a five-minute drive from where he’d seen her crawl out of the water. Not with him so close.

She must have at least a passport or some other ID and other shit hidden somewhere, because she hadn’t had anything with her except her clutch purse last night and there’d been nothing in it except a small amount of cash and a lipstick. No, his gut said she’d left something here and he just hadn’t found it yet. If he was in her shoes she’d be heading out of the country as soon as possible.

For that she’d need documents, even if they were fake. If they were here, then she’d be coming back for them. She’d have known all about him long before last night, known what he was capable of and that he wouldn’t give up the hunt.

Too much was at stake. So where the hell was she?

There’d been no sign of her at any hospital within a hundred miles of here. He had sources on the lookout for her at airports, bus stations, train stations, rental car companies, hotels. She apparently didn’t have a handler or anyone to turn to in whatever agency had hired her.

She also couldn’t have fucking disappeared into thin air. He figured she must have stolen a car, or had one already bought and waiting for her prior to last night.

After doing one more thorough look around and finding nothing, he left and headed for the SUV he’d parked in the underground garage. Anger pulsed through him as he drove back to his condo.

Unless one of his people got an alert on her—and he wasn’t convinced that would happen considering her level of training—then her apartment was his only chance of finding her at the moment. He’d have to hope he was right, that she’d come back to get whatever she’d left behind. For now, he’d keep the building under constant surveillance.

All he needed was one strong lead. Once he found her, he’d take out his anger and humiliation on her body, pry out of her who in the CIA had hired her so he could feed that to the Big Boss and save his own skin.

Then he’d end her.

****

It sounded like he had a damn mini chainsaw going at the foot of his bed.

Wyatt expelled an exasperated sigh and rolled to his back, staring up at the darkened ceiling of his bedroom in the cabin. Grits might be little, but right now he sounded like an eighty-year-old man suffering from severe sleep apnea.

He glanced down at the dog, currently sprawled out on top of the patchwork quilt his grandmother had made. She’d hate to see it being covered in dog hair.

Grits let out another teeth-rattling snorfle, actually stopped breathing for a second or two before snorting and still didn’t wake himself up.

Wyatt glared at him and nudged him with his foot. “Hey, mutton-head.”

Grits twitched but kept on sawing logs. With a badly
rusted
chainsaw.

“Hey,” he repeated, louder, his nudge less gentle this time. “Wake up.”

The dog stopped snoring and lay there, tail wagging sleepily, thumping gently against the quilt.

“Dude, seriously, you’re killing me. I’m the lightest sleeper you’ve ever met and this cannot go on.” He’d been that way since his first combat deployment. Every tiny movement or sound woke him up and put him on alert. Pure survival instinct back then. Now it was habit. The struggle was real.

Wyatt reached for the dog, who lowered his head and wagged just the end of his tail, giving him a pitiful look in a clear plea to be allowed to stay on the bed. Refusing to be sucked in just because of how cute the dog was, he picked him up and set him on the floor.

“You go sleep in your own bed.” When Piper had dumped the little guy on his doorstep, Wyatt had thought housetraining him would be the toughest part, but it turned out the real issue was not getting sucked into the whole big brown-eyed routine Grits pulled.

Grits gazed at him for a long moment, as though waiting for him to change his mind, then stood up on his hind legs. He put his front paws on the edge of the bed, his tail wagging madly, head cocked, ears perked.
Pretty please, can I stay? I’ll be a good boy.

“No. Bed.” Wyatt pointed to the cushy dog bed he’d bought the day after Piper had brought Grits over. All dogs deserved a comfy bed. Spending the money on a memory foam mattress for Grits didn’t mean Wyatt planned on keeping him.

Grits’s ears flopped in disappointment. He dropped his front paws to the ground and turned away, his tail drooping, looking like the most dejected animal ever born. His nails clicked on the old plank floor as he slowly headed for his bed and curled up there with a mournful and slightly accusatory expression, as if Wyatt had banished him to the ends of the earth rather than the end of the room.

“Drama queen,” Wyatt muttered, rolling over and stuffing his pillow into a more comfortable position. Dog was lucky Wyatt had kept him this long.

Five minutes later, Grits was snoring lightly and Wyatt was thinking about hunting down some earplugs. Freaking
earplugs
, just so he could sleep in his own damn bed, in his own damn house. Because of a damn dog he hadn’t asked for and didn’t want.

And now he couldn’t sleep. This time of night was always the hardest. Sometimes his dreams tormented him, but the ghosts never went away even when he was awake.

That hellish mission never let him go. It was always there in the back of his mind, just waiting to dig its claws into him. The guilt was way tougher to handle than the grief, and a thousand times harder to deal with than his injuries or the suffering he’d endured after.

Their faces were so clear to him. All the guys who had died that day on his watch. The agony and horror in their expressions as they’d died around him.

And Raider.

How that incredible, heroic dog had given her life to save Wyatt’s.

Covered in a thin film of sweat, he sat up and dragged a hand over his face. Fuck. Was it ever going to get any easier? It was hell, reliving it over and over again. All the therapy in the world wouldn’t erase his memories, and it sure as hell wouldn’t soothe his conscience. Those men and Raider had died that day because he’d fucked up. Their deaths were all on him.

Shoving the sheet and quilt off, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his prosthesis where it rested against the nightstand. Grits jumped out of his bed and came racing over, tail waving and body wiggling with excitement.

Wyatt ignored him, another arrow of guilt slicing through him when he looked at that adorable little face. He’d sworn he’d never get another dog, that he wouldn’t replace Raider out of respect for her memory and the sacrifice she’d made.

He really needed to call Piper and tell her he wasn’t ready for a dog, make her come take Grits. It was better for Grits that way. Things were busy enough around here, and the last thing Wyatt needed was another responsibility.

Such as an unwanted female houseguest who might pose a security threat to his family.

Frowning, he thought about this woman, Trinity, his brother had brought home. Who the hell was she and just what kind of trouble was she in? He didn’t like unknowns and didn’t appreciate a stranger possibly bringing trouble to his dad and brother, let alone on their own property that had been in the family since before the Civil War.