“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demands. “Get off me!”
“No. Not until you pry your balls out of your belly and admit what you did.”
“Do you get off on this stuff or something? You want to hear all the details?” He backhands me across the face, and I fall back. “You want to bring that back to bed with you tonight? Cozy up with all the images in your head of what I did to those little girls? I bet you didn’t know there were boys, too. It’s the most fun when they are so little and young; they don’t know what’s going on. They think we’re going to play a game. One thought I was her babysitter. She didn’t know I robbed her father and left him dead in the landfill. They still haven’t found his body.”
He laughs, but I don’t hear it. The blind rage takes over. His voice is still around me, but the words aren’t registering. The next thing I’m aware of is my hands around his neck and my knee buried in his stomach as he struggles to drive around me. Suddenly, the rumble of the engine stops, and the car slows to a stop. He shoves me away, spewing profanity as he tries to start the car again. It’s pointless. He’d have to hot-wire it again.
Seconds later, the door behind me opens, and a hand grabs me by the back of my shirt, yanking me out onto the pavement. The slam of another door tells me he’s gotten out. I struggle to get to my feet so I can chase him. But the man holding me isn’t about to give me that chance. He’s already tearing into me, and I know it’s just going to get worse.
It started raining right after Bruno dragged me out of the car. I’m soaked to the bone by the time he stuffs me into one of the unmarked black cars parked behind the disabled sedan. I haven’t gotten to change, and two hours of sitting in the frigid air conditioning of the office has my dirty blonde hair stuck to my head and my cutoff t-shirt clinging like ice to my skin. It’s penance for the mess I just made of the operation. It’s a little much. The least they could do is let me change into my real clothes.
Finally, the door opens, and Bruno sticks his head in.
“Griffin, get in here.”
I let out a sigh and follow him to the office at the end of the hall. Creagan sits behind the desk, hunched over a file as he scribbles something. Bruno gestures me into the room and leaves as fast as he can. That’s not a good sign. I sit down and watch him. The seconds tick past, and he doesn’t acknowledge me. His office is even colder than the rest of the building, and my skin might start flaking off at any second. When ten minutes have passed, I lean forward.
“Creagan?”
“What’s your name?” he asks.
Considering I’ve been working under him for the entirety of my career, that’s not the question I’m anticipating.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“Your name. What is your name?”
“Um. Emma.”
That’s me. Not Brittany, like I told Snake. Not Sugar, like a couple of the guys called me before I could stop them.
“Emma Griffin?” he asks.
He still hasn’t looked at me. I have the strange feeling I’ve somehow transported backwards through time and am back at my initial interview.
“Yes,” I tell him.
“Special Agent Emma Griffin, FBI?”
I’m not sure how much longer this is going to go and how many more pieces of identifying information he’s going to tack onto the end of the title, so I try to flash-forward to the end.
“That’s me. What’s this all about?”
He finally looks at me.
“So, you’re not Brittany, also known as Sugar, street runner, and gang member?”
I narrow my eyes slightly.
“Not at this particular moment.”
Red dots appear on Creagan’s cheeks just before he explodes.
“Then do you want to explain to me why the fuck you’re acting like her?”
Oh, shit.
“Look, I know that didn’t go …”
“No. You look. Do you have any idea what you did out there? You could have compromised the entire operation,” he fumes.
“Could have?”
“Somehow, even in the middle of your meltdown, you managed to get him to admit to everything before he crushed the recorder in your bra. He took off running after we disabled the car, but a couple of the guys caught up with him, and he’s been arrested.”
“So, everything worked out.”
“Don’t even try that. It’s an absolute fluke this ended with us getting the information we needed, and the only reason that happened is because of the foundation laid out over the last few months. That saved your ass. What the hell happened to you out there? It’s like your brain just stopped working.”
“Did you hear the things he admitted to?” I asked.
“Yes. And I’ve heard worse before, and I’ll hear worse again. It comes with the job, Griffin. Your job was to get him to admit to what he did so we could nail him. You couldn’t control yourself out there, and it could have gone south real quick. You could have gotten yourself killed, or worse, gotten one of the guys killed.”
“Wow. Thanks for that,” I mutter.
“What is it you want me to say? You went completely off the handle. I’m going to leave my concern with the men who were actually doing what they were supposed to and maintained the professionalism during this operation.”
My face burns, and I cross my arms over my chest.
“I’ve never had my professionalism questioned.”
“You’ve also never given up so much information to a suspect, chased the suspect down, and tried to beat the living fuck out of him while he was driving a car. You could have ruined the entire operation!”
“He could have gotten away.”
“It was a bait car, Griffin! It was put there in case something like this happened. We had control over that car. You know that. You’re the one who begged and finagled your way into this operation, to begin with.”
“I want more serious responsibilities. And my injuries are fine, thanks for asking,” I spit.
It’s petty, but I’m getting angry and don’t want him to know just how far under my skin he’s managed to crawl.
“You wouldn’t have been injured at all if you didn’t lose trust in the team and go bat-shit insane. If you weren’t a lucky son of a bitch, that guy wouldn’t have said a single usable word, and you would have been smashed and smeared across the street. Then he would have been free to find more children to play with. Is that what you wanted?” he asks.
“Of course, it isn’t,” I snap.
“Then you should have had your shit together.”
I’ve had enough. I stand up.
“You’ve made your point. I’m sorry I went off script. It won’t happen again,” I say.
“No, it won’t. Not any time soon, anyway,” Creagan growls.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Until further notice, you’re out of the field. Turn in your gun and find a cushion. You’re riding the desk from now on.”
Chapter One
Six months later
The feeling of riding a train has always put me to sleep. I'm far from unique in that. No matter what time of day it is, every train crisscrossing around the country is dotted with sleeping passengers. Some try to be subtle about it and pretend they aren't really sleeping, crossing their hands over their stomachs and closing their eyes as they maintain as perfect of posture as they can. Others have no shame and dive into it full-bore, slapping on their sleep masks, and curling up under blankets to hide from the trip. I have a far deeper knowledge of that phenomenon now after spending the last sixteen hours in this seat.
Right now, I'm fighting the urge to join the latter group. I have a giant cardigan in the bag at my feet, and I want to wrap myself in it and just block out the rest of the ride. Unfortunately, that's not an option for me. My stop is coming up soon, and for the last seven hours, I've been on strict orders to stay awake. I am officially on duty even if the messy bun on top of my head and my shoes sitting discarded to the side say different. Paying attention to my surroundings is crucial, and I can't do that sleeping.