Undercover Heat (2 page)

The man on the line snorted. “You got lucky. The bastard who took those kids was stupid. If it had been me, I would have—” And then Quinn's father proceeded to tell him exactly how a criminal mastermind would have been able to elude the FBI for so much longer than the man who was now in prison, charged with multiple counts of federal kidnapping and human trafficking. Many parents, many kids, could sleep comfortably now, thanks to Quinn.

Not that his father would ever acknowledge such a thing.

“Are you done yet?” Quinn interrupted. “I have things to do.”

“What? Gloat about your great victory over the criminal class? You'll never catch us all, you know that, right? Your kind is outnumbered. You'll always be outnumbered.”

His kind
. The good guys. As much as Quinn viewed the world in black and white, so too did his father. As far as he was concerned, it was the one and only thing they had in common.

“That doesn't mean we won't keep trying,” he retorted, goaded, as ever, into the same futile argument he'd had with the man for these past seven years. Ever since Lawrence Daniels was finally arrested and thrown into prison.

“You'll never win,” Larry replied.

“We beat you, didn't we?” Quinn shot back.

“You got lucky. Everybody gets lucky sometimes.”

Luck had nothing to do with the day his father was arrested. But he knew he would never win this argument. That was about as likely as the Lions, Tigers, Pistons, and Red Wings all winning their respective championships in the same year. Never gonna happen.

“I'll bank on that sort of luck any time,” he said. “This chat has been enlightening, as always, but I gotta go. Enjoy your incarceration.” He disconnected before his father could come up with a suitable retort that would inevitably pull Quinn into an argument that would leave him even more emotionally drained and no less satisfied with himself, or his life.

He tossed the cell phone onto the kitchen counter and then walked over to the cabinet next to the stove, which housed his liquor assortment. He selected a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam, twisted off the cap, and lifted the bottle to his lips. Might as well start the day off right.

At least it would kill the hangover from the night before.

“We're good to go.”

“Finally.” Kyra dropped into the cracked faux-leather chair positioned across from the director's desk. “I am so ready to close this case. You have no idea.”

“Yeah, actually, I do.” The look Nico gave her spoke volumes. He understood because she'd had to give full disclosure when she asked for the transfer from Dallas to Detroit. While her previous director hadn't bothered to check that the door didn't slam her in the ass on the way out, her current boss hadn't wanted to take on another agent without knowing all the facts.
All
of them.

So, Nico knew she had been chasing the same perp for damn near two years now. Knew the case had been a hairsbreadth away from closing about a year ago. He knew
why
she hadn't closed it, too.

Even after everything went sour, when her perp disappeared like smoke, even after her former boss told her to quit chasing shadows and move on with her life, Kyra hadn't relented. And it paid off. Eight months ago, she'd caught a break, figured out the perp had relocated to the Detroit area. She hadn't hesitated to put in for a temporary transfer. The director in Dallas likely would have given her a permanent transfer had she asked—he wanted her in his office as much as she wanted to be there—but she hadn't. Despite the way things went down with her case, her family, her life was still in Dallas. She hadn't been ready to walk away entirely.

Kyra nodded. “Sorry. Right. So who's my partner on this?”

Nico glanced at the computer monitor perched on his desk. “Obviously it needs to be a male agent.”

“Of course. That makes sense.”

“It also makes sense to use someone from the Detroit office, instead of asking someone to come in from out of town.”

“Okay, sure,” she said, not understanding why he felt the need to explain all of this before telling her who would be going undercover with her for the foreseeable future.

“It was actually slim pickings after I had a look at everyone's caseload. In fact, only one agent currently has a clear desk.”

Suspicion bloomed in her mind. There was only one reason Nico would be so hesitant to come right out and tell her the name of her temporary partner. Suddenly, she shot to her feet.

“No,” she blurted.

“You don't even know who—”

“Quinn Daniels. He just wrapped up his case on Friday. I ran into him while he was celebrating at the bar. And I repeat: No. I can't. Find someone else. Anyone else.
Please
, Nico.”

• • •

“You have a new case.”

“I'm shocked that the criminal element wouldn't give me at least one full workday to relax.” Quinn's voice was full of sarcasm, but he was resigned to the fact that he was already back to reading files and sitting stakeouts, just a day after solving his last one.

“You had the weekend.”

“Nice of the bad guys to give me that. What's the latest crime?”

“Actually, it isn't a new case,” Nico amended. “You're going to help somebody else close theirs.”

“What, I'm The Closer now?” he asked, referring to Cullen Lawry from the New Orleans field office, who had a reputation as one of the FBI's best agents.

Nico shook his head. “More like we needed a specific type of agent who wasn't in the middle of something else at the moment.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “What type of agent?”

“Male. Looks to be late twenties, maybe early thirties. Doesn't have a jealous wife at home who might be annoyed by the fact that he's going to play house with another woman for the next few weeks.”

It took him a few moments to comprehend. He narrowed his eyes to study the man who had twenty years on him yet still had a head of thick, wavy hair and sharp, blue eyes. Nico greeted his look with a mild one of his own.

“Are you telling me I'm going undercover?”

Without breaking eye contact, Nico nodded.

“As part of a married couple?”

Nico nodded again.

Hmmm. Among the various field agents in the Detroit office there were only three possibilities, unless Nico intended for him to be part of a gay couple.

“With Raquel?” he said hopefully. Raquel Smith was hot. With all that dark, curly hair, chocolate-brown eyes, and slinky body, he had no problem with the idea of cozying up to her for however long it took to solve her case. Raquel had started at the Detroit office a year before Quinn, and over the years, he'd periodically gotten drunk and hit on her. She'd never taken him up on his offer. He didn't blame her. But he still wouldn't mind sleeping with her.

Nico made a face. “Raquel just had a baby, not three weeks ago,” he said in a voice that indicated Quinn was an idiot for not realizing it.

“Oh.” He raked his hand through his hair. “Now that you say that, I guess I remember she was getting pretty big here recently.”

Nico shook his head in exasperation. “Quinn, I really feel sorry for you when you finally end up falling in love.”

“Won't happen,” he said with absolute conviction.

“Sure, it will,” Nico replied. “You just won't realize it when it does. I hope to hell you figure it out before you do something stupid and let her get away. Because she's going to be worth keeping.”

When in the hell had his boss started sounding like his mother, dead seven years now? He didn't think about her very often anymore, but when he did, those thoughts were rarely positive. She'd been a timid, fearful woman who let Quinn's father slap her around for far too many years. With those two role models, he figured he didn't stand a chance of having a healthy, long-term relationship. Best to avoid it altogether.

To make his comments even more bizarre, Nico knew about Quinn's past. It was his boss who had fought to keep him as part of the team after Quinn's father had been arrested.

“Falling in love, all that domestic shit, it isn't in the cards.”

“Don't sell yourself short, Quinn. You need to stop thinking that you or your offspring are going to turn out like your parents. You're a good guy. You just need to believe it.”

“Quit with the warm, fuzzy bullshit, Nico, and give me the assignment.”

Nico slid a small stack of papers across his desk. “It's Kyra Sanders's case.”

Quinn was scheduled to begin working with Kyra on Wednesday. He had two days to wrap things up at his own apartment, pack a bag, and head over to the address noted in the file Nico had given him. He and his fellow agent would be living as husband and wife, every second of every day, until the case was closed.

Which meant he had something to take care of first.

“What a pleasant surprise to have you here on a Tuesday, Mr. Daniels.” The elderly clergyman had known him since he was a pre-teen, yet refused to call him by his first name. He called it a show of respect. Quinn called it a reminder of his asshole father.

Not that he ever said so in front of the priest.

“I'm going undercover, starting tomorrow.” Quinn grunted as he lifted a heavy box, full of bags of flour. He carried the box of food from the back of the truck into the community hall attached to the church and placed it next to the row of boxes he'd already delivered.

“I don't know when I'll be back again. Could be a few weeks.”

“Well, I'll certainly take what I can get. Tuesdays are so much better for volunteering anyway, since that's when we get most of our deliveries.”

Quinn heard the hint, but he ignored it. He volunteered on Saturdays, because that was the only day of the week he could reasonably commit to, and they both knew it.

“So who normally unloads all this stuff?” he asked as he returned to the truck and pulled out another box of donated food. The priest shuffled after him.

“Oh, it depends. Usually I can talk whoever is donating into carrying it inside. In the case of this big truck, I either do it myself, or if it still isn't done when the driver is ready to leave, he manages to stir up enough humility to do it for me.” He shot a disgruntled look at the guy lounging in the cab, reading a newspaper, and completely ignoring the two men.

Quinn spared a glance at the frail priest. He had to be eighty if he was a day. His shoulders were stooped, his hands gnarled with arthritis. Maybe Nico would be open to letting him take a few hours each Tuesday to head over here to unload the food donations. His boss was a reasonable man, and he knew where—what—Quinn had come from. Nico understood his need to give back more than most would.

He opened his mouth to say as much to the priest, but the old man's face lit with obvious glee, and he trotted off, hustling down the sidewalk with surprising speed to greet the owner of a sleek, gunmetal gray Charger that had just pulled up to the curb. Quinn straightened and took a moment to admire the sporty car.

The priest opened the driver's side door and pulled the occupant out and into his arms, hugging what Quinn guessed was a woman as tightly as if she were a long-lost friend. When the old guy pushed her to arm's length, Quinn blinked.

Kyra Sanders? What the hell was she doing here? He stepped to the side of the truck, hiding himself from view while watching the interaction between her and the clergyman. Her wide, genuine smile slammed into Quinn as if she'd punched him in the gut, even though it wasn't even meant for him. He was pretty sure it was the first time he'd ever seen her smile so wide. At work, she was usually frowning, or had an impassive expression on her face.

The priest's voice carried to Quinn, loud and clear. “Oh nonsense, Miss Sanders. Look at all those canned goods. I won't let you carry all of that into the church.”

“You aren't getting all sexist on me, are you, Father Benedict?” she teased.

“I'm old enough to be your great-great grandfather. You'd better believe I'm sexist. Come here. I have a handy-dandy volunteer here today, and I know he'll be happy to help. Don't take this the wrong way, but he's even more of a contributor than you are. 'Course, he's lived in these parts most of his life, whereas you've only been here for half a year or so ...”

Quinn watched in horror as Father Benedict wrapped his claw-like hand around Kyra's arm and dragged her toward the delivery truck. Shit. He twisted his head around, judging the likelihood of racing to his truck without either one of them seeing him. The truck driver must have noticed there was a female in the vicinity, because he abruptly tossed his newspaper to the side and leaped out of the cab, tipping his hat as he did so.

“Hey, pretty lady,” he crooned, and Quinn had the urge to punch him in the face. He wasn't seriously going to help now that there was a good-looking woman to watch, was he?

Kyra arched her blond brow and gave him a cool look. When she made no indication she intended to respond to his greeting, the driver cleared his throat and nodded at her car.

“You need help with something?”

Father Benedict waved a gnarled hand in the guy's face. “You can't even deign to help with the supplies donated by the company you work for,” he scoffed. “Go back to reading the funny pages. Come on, Miss Sanders. Mr. Daniels will help us.”

“Mr. ... who?” She stopped short, her arm slipping out of the priest's grasp, just as Quinn stepped into view.

“Quinn,” she blurted. “What are you doing here?”

“Volunteering,” the priest answered for him. “He does it just about every week.” His voice was full of pride. Quinn winced. Volunteering weekly to help the local church distribute food to the poor did not mesh with the I-don't-care-about-anything persona he worked so hard to portray to his co-workers.