A bang against the glass startled her. Moor scratched with clawed hands against the viewing glass, her face contorting in a snarl. Her eyes blazed yellow as she snapped, her jaw filled with razor-sharp teeth. Frantic, she flipped backward onto her elongated limbs, then scrambled around the room looking for a way out.
“I don’t think she’s faking it this time,” Terryn said.
CHAPTER 14
“YOU LOOK LIKE hell,” Laura said.
It had been five days since she had last seen Sinclair. He hadn’t called, or, rather, he hadn’t called her. He had checked in at InterSec at the prescribed intervals, but he hadn’t contacted her even after she left him messages. So she finally called him.
Stretched out on the couch in her Alexandria apartment, Sinclair chuckled with his eyes closed. “I have been awake for almost three days that have included drinking, tramping through the woods, arm wrestling, and drag racing a truck. Then I had to ride here in the trunk of your car. I’m a little tired.”
Laura slid a cold bottle of beer into his hand, then dropped into an armchair. Picking up the remote, she lowered the sound on the flat-screen TV above the fireplace but left the news on. “Oh, sure. I’m stressed out undercover with an ex-CIA spook hanging over me, and you’re out having fun with the boys.”
He levered himself up so he could drink his beer. “I will gladly switch with you. I’m used to arresting rednecks, not hanging with them.”
She smiled. “How bad are they?”
He rolled his eyes. “You would not believe the crap these guys are into. The federal government is a criminal organization. The Constitution was dictated by God and must be obeyed, but all the laws that came after are from men and are optional. The fey are dirty scum that need to be wiped out—as well as non-Christians, most everyone darker than an albino, people with college degrees, and anyone who doesn’t drive a Chevy.”
“A Chevy? That’s nuts,” she said.
He laughed again. “Yeah. It’s a different world.”
Laura slumped in her chair, dangling her glass of orange juice and vodka over the armrest. “It sounds like you’re in, though.”
He held out his beer. “Meet the new freelance consultant for the Legacy Foundation.”
She tapped the bottle with her glass. “Let me guess—weapons training at a militia camp?”
“Yeah. They’ve got several acres up in Virginia where they run around playing guerrilla revolutionary. Now I have to figure out how to teach them enough so they think I know what I’m doing but not enough that they might learn something,” he said.
She watched the news anchor Jenna Dahl talking in front of a picture of Draigen macCullen. She was tempted to turn up the volume, but the image was gone before she finished the thought. Terryn would brief her on anything important. She sipped her drink. “That’s always the hard part of all this—sometimes helping a cause you don’t agree with in the process of getting what you went in for. I try to get in and get out as fast as possible.”
He rocked his head. “How far do you go?”
Laura stared down at her drink. How far indeed. She had done things she never thought she would do. Some depressed her, some embarrassed her, and, yes, a couple of things horrified her. She didn’t like to think about it. Ever since Sinclair walked away from Fallon Moor’s holding cell, she had been expecting his question. “It depends on the stakes, Jono.”
Curious, he cocked his head at her. “That sounds intriguing and . . . um, not so good.”
“It’s not that melodramatic. Sometimes you have to push the envelope. It’s the nature of the job.” She rose from the chair and freshened her drink at the kitchen counter. More ice and juice. She had rules about alcohol. Living a life with so much solitude and secrets made bottles and pills seductive. She had seen friends and colleagues spiral into despair, then burn out. Burned out of the job. Burned out of their lives. The loneliness of undercover work made them feel trapped, with no one to share their hopes and fears. She knew she wasn’t an alcoholic, but she wondered how many people thought about it like she did every time she poured a drink.
“So why are you so secretive?” he asked.
Even Terryn didn’t know everything she did to get a job done. Sinclair couldn’t see her from this angle. If he thought she was going to bare her soul to him after a few weeks, he was mistaken. Laura returned to the armchair and propped her feet up on the coffee table, something she had never done in the Alexandria apartment. She didn’t think she’d ever sat in the armchair before either. She brought the glass to her lips, keeping her expression neutral. “Have I killed people without thinking about it? Have I slept with people I didn’t want to? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”
He pursed his lips. “I didn’t mean for the conversation to go in this direction.”
She let out a mild scoff, not sarcastic, but understanding. “Yeah. That’s the thing, isn’t it? Things slide in directions you don’t expect and don’t intend. So you manage it on the fly. Sometimes that means dealing with things you don’t want to.”
Sinclair focused his attention on his beer bottle. “And sometimes you go over the line?”
She sighed. “The problem with this job, Jono, is that there are no lines except the ones you draw for yourself. And then they move.” She took a long sip of her drink. “The answer is ‘yes’ to both those questions, by the way.”
She said it because it needed to be said. If Sinclair ended up a part of her life—either work or personal—he was going to hear it at some point anyway. When he glanced at her then, she surprised herself by feeling relieved. His face looked reflective rather than disappointed in her.
“When I saw you in the room, like Moor, it scared me a little. We never went that far on the force,” he said.
His admission touched her. She doubted Jonathan Sinclair discussed being afraid often. “InterSec has wider parameters for use of force. The situation has to justify it, and we have to answer for it if we’re wrong.”
“You threatened to kill me the night we met,” he said.
She stared. “And the answer to your unspoken question is, yes, I would have if it were necessary.”
“But you didn’t.”
She gestured with her palm up. “Because I had time for alternatives. They weren’t great ones for either of us, but you’re not dead, and I don’t have more blood on my hands. I can live with those results.”
He grunted. “Me, too.”
“You seem uncomfortable about something,” she said.
He pushed his lower lip out, a habit that she thought made him look boyish. “This stuff is a lot less glamorous than I thought it was.”
She smirked. “No pun intended?”
He rolled his head toward her. “No, but I guess it’s more glamorous for you. I’ve spent the last few weeks driving businessmen around who spend more time on the phone trying to line up affairs than doing business.”
“That’s the grunt-work part. It doesn’t exactly get the adrenaline flowing,” she said.
Sinclair stared at the ceiling. “Exactly.”
“But when you do get it going, you realize you can’t live on that level all the time, even if it’s a welcome rush at the moment.”
His eyebrow flicked up. “I hadn’t considered that.”
The television screen switched to a view of the Key Bridge. The banner crawl along the bottom of the screen announced that Ian Whiting’s body still had not been recovered. Footage played from the morning his car was found. The camera zoomed in on his shoes where he left them with a note on the abutment.
“Do you think you could ever do that?” Sinclair asked.
“Suicide?” She shook her head. “Not my nature. Cress doesn’t think it was Whiting’s either. She thinks he walked away.”
Sinclair grunted in surprise. “How about that? Say ‘screw it’ and walk away?”