Owned: An Alpha Anthology (45 page)

DEEP COVER: CASE 001
BY LILLIANA ANDERSON

002

Driving faster than I should, I arrive at Site Seventeen thirty-five minutes later.

Site seventeen is a concrete warehouse, nestled unassumingly amongst a sea of identical warehouses in a busy industrial area to the south of the city. In the very front of the building, it’s set up so it appears to be a car parts manufacturer, but once you walk past the machines to the door that’s hidden in the storeroom, you’ll find yourself heading underground to what the general public and conspiracy theorists would call a ‘black site’.

It’s a large, underground basement that is outfitted as the headquarters for high-risk cases–the cases the public aren’t allowed to know about, or the cases that the government will deny any knowledge of if things go south. It’s all ‘off the books’, but still operates within the law...well, most of the time, anyway.

There are many of these ‘sites’ around the country, and their location is on a need-to-know basis only. I have no idea of the exact number it goes up to, but I know site seventeen like the back of my hand. It’s the place that sucked all the joy out of my life.

I have to go through a security check before I’m allowed any further than the first entry point, and another five minutes has passed by the time I’m escorted to where Commander Greer is waiting for me. I’ve never worked with Greer before. But I know of him. He’s the man they call in to fix things that are broken. He’s the man who led the capture team for Drake in the first place.

"You’re late," he bellows, tilting his baldhead to indicate that I follow him as he walks briskly towards another door.

"If it were up to me, I wouldn’t even be here," I shoot back, talking tough to cover up my unease at being back inside this building. I follow behind him, my posture stiff as a keen sense of dread settles in my stomach. With every step, memories of this place begin to flood back into my mind like a highlight reel: being chosen as a part of an elite team, the excitement of our first day here, the late nights chasing down leads and pouring through information…the day he went undercover. The day he went rogue. The day the ‘shoot on sight’ order went out.

The day the kill was confirmed…

I have to swallow hard to keep the bile from rising up from my throat. Memories of Drake are everywhere I look. I want to close my eyes. I want to stop seeing this place. But I can’t stop looking. I can’t stop remembering.

Greer takes me into a meeting room where two other agents are sitting together, going over files. One of them I know, her name is Gabrielle Birdwood, although most call her Gabby or Birdy for short. I first met her not long after I came to work with the Federal Police, but we’ve only worked a handful of cases together. We were never really friends until after Drake had died. She’s one of the few people who were still kind to me after his betrayal, and as a result, our friendship flourished. She’s also the reason I met Gavin and started getting on with my life again. As for the other agent, I’ve never seen him before. He’s one of those mega tall but incredibly slim people whose face is angular, like it’s just skin sucking on bone.

When I enter the room, they both look up. Gabby gives me a sympathetic smile, knowing that this is the last place I want to be, and the other just stares at me like I’ve done something wrong.

"Take a seat," Greer instructs me, and I move to sit down.

"This is Agent Emery," he informs me and I nod at the man across the table, noting that he doesn’t do the same to me. "And I believe you already know Agent Birdwood. She’s been catching Emery up on the case before we begin discussing the new developments."

"And what new developments are those?" I ask, folding my arms on the matte black surface of the table and leaning forward.

Greer’s eyes meet mine as he lifts the small remote from the table and points it over his shoulder, powering up the monitor that is affixed to the grey concrete wall behind him. On it, the feed to one of the holding cells is delivered. It shows a man cuffed to the table, sitting stoically with his hands clasped in front of him. The camera points down on the room, so all you can see is a mass of hair and the filth on his skin in the grainy image.

"A person of interest has been apprehended." Greer turns and picks up a manila folder with the typical confidential markings on it before turning back to us. "And despite Emery and Birdwood’s persuasive techniques, he’s been unwilling to speak to anyone, unless he speaks to you first." His eyes land on me as he flicks the file onto the table. It lands with a slap and slides towards me as I clap my hand over it to stop its motion.

"To me?" I ask. "Why?" I look around the room and get no answer from the impassive faces of my colleagues. So I drop my eyes and open the folder in front of me, the name of the man being held, jumping out at me before I see anything else. "No." I slap the folder closed and shake my head. "No, that’s not…" I glance at the monitor, still shaking my head. "No."

Greer leans on the table and levels me with his gaze. "I don’t need to tell you how important it is that we gain some sort of information from that man. Now what I want you to do is put aside any sort of personal shit you may have, and get in there and do your job."

Glancing again at the monitor, I swallow hard then nod and follow when Greer indicates that I need to. He takes me down a set of stairs to where I know the holding rooms are. Suddenly, he stops, halting outside one of the cell doors. They aren’t your typical cells for holding prisoners. These are the kind of cells that while they have cameras, they don’t have any rules.

He narrows his eyes at me, and I can see thoughts warring across his face. From what I hear by way of reputation, Greer is a man of very few words, in his mid-fifties, he’s worked tirelessly for our country by using his keen instinct and precise actions to get where he is today. When he talks. Everyone acts. Because if he talks, it’s important, he doesn’t do chitchat.

"I had to call you in here, Samuels. It’s against my better judgement to have someone so close to this working here. But I don’t think we have much of a choice. Now, I want you to get in there, and get as much information as you can. Find out what he wants and get him to talk. I’m giving you one hour with him, and then you’re out."

I open my mouth to question him, but he doesn’t give me time to speak, he just opens the door and places his large hand on the centre of my back and pushes me through.

I stumble forward, frowning slightly as I look back at the closing door that leads into a small viewing room. The lighting is practically non-existent in here. There is a dim globe that hangs above a small alcove where normally there are other agents watching and listening in. However, this time, there’s no one.

The strangeness of the situation makes my already unsettled stomach tighten. Something feels very wrong here.

I glance into the interrogation room and see him, still handcuffed to the table, his head bowed and his long, dark wavy hair, hangs in a mess around his bearded face. It continues down past his shoulders in a matted tangle of blood and grime. It appears he’s already been worked over, and I remember the awful look on Emery’s face while we were in the meeting room, and an involuntary shudder runs through me.

Moving closer to the one-way window, I study him more intently, if it wasn’t for that tug of familiarity in his movement, I wouldn’t believe it. But the way he clasps his fingers together, and the set of his shoulders as he hunches forward, tired. I know him.

I know him. As sure as my heart is beating in my chest, I know this man. I lift my shaking hand and place it on the glass, staring at him in disbelief. And as if sensing my presence, he looks up, and somehow, he meets my eyes.

It’s in that moment that I know for sure. I know what my heart knew all those years ago but no one believed. My body can feel him–it had reacted to him before I'd even entered the room. But it’s his eyes that make me certain. Not their colour because there’s nothing unusual about them at all. It’s the way he looks at me, like he can see right through me. Even though he can’t see me at all…

I rush to the door, throwing it open to make sure I’m not dreaming. And as I stand there, my breathing heavy like I just ran a mile, he looks over at me and smiles. And that’s when there’s no doubt in my mind.

Drake has returned.

"Did you feed the fish?" he asks, the first words I’ve heard from him in four long years. Four years in which I believed he was dead. Four years in which I mourned his loss.

A sob escapes my throat as I cover my mouth and nod, tears pooling at the corners of my eyes as I make my way over to him, placing my hands on either side of his face. "Yes. I fed your bloody fish," I whisper.

"I’ve missed you, Trix," he says, using my old nickname, given to me not long after I joined the Federal Police, because I always had ‘tricks’ up my sleeve.

"I thought you were dead," I whisper, my fingers stroking his beard, touching his hair, his face, making sure that he’s real.

"I almost was."

"Where have you been?"

"To hell," he murmurs.

"And back again," I finish for him but he shakes his head.

"No. I’m still there."

I release his face, nodding my head in understanding as I lean against the heavy metal table, taking a deep breath as I let my mind catch up with my emotions. Then, I turn to Drake and raise my hand, slapping his face hard, the loud clap of my hand against his cheek, echoing through the holding room.

"That’s for leaving," I say, forcing my words out through my thickened throat. I’m refusing to cry. I’m done with crying over Drake. For four years, I’ve thought he was dead. I’ve mourned his loss. I fought for his memory. I began to believe what they said, becoming angry at him for going rogue and for turning into the very thing we were fighting against. But in the end, I was hurt, hurt that I wasn’t enough for him to want to come back to. I’d thought we were each other’s everything, but I was wrong. He left me. And the pain is even worse now that I find out he’s not dead.

I raise my hand and slap him again, his eyes closing as he takes my blow without protest. "And that’s for not coming back."

Pushing through my thighs, I stand up from the table and walk around to the other side, knowing I’m being watched but not giving a shit. This man was my husband. My love. If I can’t come in here and react to his return with a little emotion, then they can go and fuck themselves. They need me, and this is going my way.

Pacing up and down the room I try to decide what I want to ask him first, or whether I even want to talk to him at all.

Finally, I stop and place my hands on my hips, as I face him. "Why now, Drake? Why are you back? I was finally getting my life together. I was finally getting on without you. Why are you here?" I demand.

"I was captured," he replies, and I begin pacing again, shaking my head at what I know is a lie.

"Don’t give me that shit, Drake. There is no way in hell that
you
were captured. Don’t forget that I know you. I know what you’re capable of. There are very few people who can best you in this world, and I know that no one in law enforcement is going to bring you in unless you want to be caught. So I’ll ask again–why now? Why are you here?"

He smiles, glancing down at his interlaced fingers before he answers. "You haven’t changed a bit."

"I’ve changed more than you know. Grief changes people, Drake. Especially unnecessary grief." I stop in front of him and fold my arms across my chest and just glare, focusing everything I have on the hurt inside me to keep control. But I’m hanging on by a thread.

"I almost forgot how beautiful you look when you’re angry. How your cheeks get all heated and your eyes shine," he muses, giving me his most enigmatic smile, and much to my dismay, my heart does one of those acrobatic flips that they only seem to do around that one particular person–your soul mate.

For a moment, I lose a grip on my mind, and it’s flooded of images of Drake and I together; of the love we shared. I had been so sure that Drake and I belonged together, everything between us had been perfect. I mean, we fought, but we made up, and oh could he make it up to me…

Closing my eyes, I force my mind to focus, holding on to that feeling that sits heavy in my stomach and tells me I wasn’t enough for him. He obviously didn’t want me. He didn’t come back. He left me. Mentally, I grab hold of that emotion and open my eyes before speaking again.

"You still haven’t answered my questions. Why are you here?"

"I’m here to work with you."

It’s my turn to laugh. "To work with me? That’s interesting. What makes you so sure I would ‘work’ with you again?"

"Work is probably the wrong word. Consider it ‘help’. I have information. Information you couldn’t possibly get access to yourself. And I’m willing to share it with you, and only you. This could make your career, Trix."

"I really don’t give a fuck about my career, Drake. It was ruined the moment my husband became a wanted man. There isn’t a shitload of trust between agents when that happens. You should have seen how fast they approved my request to be moved to an internal job."

"I’m sure my disappearance caused you a lot of strain. But things are changing, and it’s time to make this right."

"Make it right," I repeat, my voice laced with disbelief as I place my hands on the edge of the stainless steel table that he’s chained to and lean slightly forward. "Fine. Talk. Tell me this wealth of information you have, so I can go home to my
boyfriend
and be done with the ghosts of my past."