Sam sat in Ice’s passenger seat. Fuming.
It had been thirty minutes since he’d last seen Bridgette in the kitchen, and they were just heading out after her, now.
He clenched his fists. He didn’t know if he was angry or scared, but damn it, whatever it was, it was eating at his gut. At his sanity. What the fuck was she thinking?
He didn’t know. Didn’t have a clue why she’d taken off. He’d gotten a strange feeling while talking with Hank and the others in his living room. As if they were being watched. But, when Sam had decided to check up on her, Hank’s phone had rung. The sheriff had called back.
After running background checks on the men, he hadn’t found any of them that owned a Corvette. Stingray or otherwise. The news had prickled another sense—the one that told him things might not be as picture perfect as they’d thought. That’s when he’d gone in search of Bridgette.
Finding her bag missing from the kitchen hadn’t worried him, initially. He’d assumed she’d headed upstairs for a shower. It wasn’t until he’d searched the house that the inklings of panic had set in. Then, he’d gone outside, and his heart had stopped. Just stopped beating. Or it had been going so damn fast he hadn’t been able to feel it. Either way, he’d realized his mistake too late.
Ice slapped him on the thigh. “Stop mulling it all over in your head. It’s driving me nuts listening to you growl.”
“I’m not growling.”
“Right. And I’m the fucking tooth fairy.”
“What the fuck was she thinking?”
Ice shrugged. “You say that like I understand women any better than you. There’s a reason I’m alone, Midnight.”
“But we’re talking her safety. Shit, we just took down nine men. Nine mother fuckers that were ready to put a bullet between her pretty blue eyes. And she ditches me? Lets the air out of everyone else’s tires so she’d get more of a head start?”
“You did suggest that it was over.”
“I said ‘theoretically’. But that’s beside the point. She promised me she wouldn’t run. To. My. Face.”
Ice nodded, traveling for a while in silence before glancing at Sam. “She still not picking up?”
“Voicemail.”
Ice pursed his lips, taking the next exit toward Livingston. “Maybe this isn’t about the case. Maybe this is personal. Did you do or say anything that might have upset her?”
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to her since the shootout. So, unless she’s pissed because we haven’t talked, I don’t see how I’ve upset her. I thought…”
He thought they had something special. That this was the beginning of the rest of their lives. Together. How had he read things so wrong? Read her so wrong? He knew she’d been distant, but he’d chalked it up to the trauma. Being caught in the midst of two shootouts in less than twenty-four hours. That, coupled with some lingering guilt about ever doubting she needed protection, had seemed like a viable reason for her somber mood.
Obviously, he’d been wrong. Monumentally wrong. The only saving grace was that she hadn’t taken off her necklace. Had most likely forgotten he could track her by it. And the dot on his phone told him everything he needed to know.
She was headed back to Livingston. Then, most likely, on to Seattle.
“Try her, again.”
Sam grunted but hit her contact number. It rang, the sound fisting his hands. He went to tap the disconnect when her shaky voice answered.
“Please, stop calling, Sam.”
He froze for a moment. He hadn’t really believed she’d pick up. Not after trying a couple dozen times, already. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He cursed the hard edge in his voice. Great. He finally gets through, and the first thing he does is yell at her.
He heard her swallow, the sound thick. Shaky. “Bridgette? Are you crying? Shit, are you hurt? Pull—”
“No. You don’t get to ask me that after what you said. You don’t get to say shit.”
He pulled the phone away, looking at it as if it might give him the answers because he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. “After what I said? What the hell did I say that made you ditch me? Just hours after nearly getting killed?”
A sniff. Damn. She was crying.
He tamped down his anger. This wasn’t like her. Something was wrong. “Darling, please—”
“Don’t call me that. Just… I’m fine. Thank you for everything you did, everything your friends did. I know I can never repay you or them. Never say thank you enough, but it’s over. I’ll ask for police protection once I’m back, just to be safe. But your job is done.”
Job? Did she seriously think she was nothing but a job to him? Hadn’t he told her he cared? That he more than cared?
“Is this about last night? Was it too much? Did I scare you? You could have told me.”
“Too much?” She snorted, but he heard the thickness in her voice. The wavering pitch. “I trusted you. I let you hold me down. You knew what that meant to me. You should have just come clean, then.”
Sam glanced at Ice, arching a brow, wondering if Bridgette was talking in a different language. “I don’t understand what you mean by coming clean. Of course, I know what holding you like that meant to you. It meant just as much to me.”
Silence. Dead silence.
“Bridgette?”
“Extreme measures, huh?”
He froze. Again. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. And I heard you. I guess I was wrong before. You do understand women. Whatever they taught you in Army Ranger school…you aced it. Because I believed every word. Congratulations, soldier. Mission accomplished.”
Shit. “Bridgette. It’s not like that. I didn’t—”
The line went dead.
“Bridgette!”
He called her back, cursing when it went to voicemail, again. This couldn’t be happening.
“Midnight.”
He stared at the phone, watching the dot move closer to her home. Closer to leaving him for good. He could follow her, but once she got back to Seattle—once she arranged for police protection and didn’t need him, anymore—he’d be hard pressed to win her back. Hell, he’d be hard pressed, now, but at least he might have a shot. A chance to explain in private.
“Sam!”
He glanced over at Ice. Had he just called him Sam? The guys never did that unless it was during introductions.
Ice shook his head. “Snap the fuck out of it. We’ll explain everything to her. Fuck, it’s my fault. If I hadn’t teased you…” He glanced over at Sam. “I didn’t know she was listening. That she’d heard.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”
“I was the one who brought up you sleeping with other clients. Christ, I’m an idiot. She obviously didn’t hear anything after that or she would have realized it was a joke.”
“I didn’t tell her.”
Ice frowned, glancing quickly at him before concentrating on the road. “Tell her what?”
Sam just stared at him.
“Oh. You didn’t tell her that you love her.”
“The night she was attacked. It left some lingering issues. Intimacy issues. But, last night…” He slammed his fist on his thigh, wishing it hurt a lot more than it did. “She took a risk. A huge risk. I knew it. I knew it meant more than her trusting me. She was telling me she loved me. Not with words. With her actions—fuck, they were screaming it at me. And what did I do? I told her I cared.”
He slammed his hand against the window, this time, embracing the sting that shot up his arm. “I actually used that word. I said I ‘cared’ about her. Then, I pounded into her as if my fucking life depended on it, instead of showing her I’d gotten the message.”
He hung his head. “This is all on me. Like that jump. I saw Gray stumble. Saw his hand twitching. He even said he felt invincible. I knew something was up. But, then, the PT tech said Gray was fine, and I just let it go.” He closed his eyes. “Let him step out into the dark. I could have stopped him. I was standing right there.”
Ice remained quiet, nothing but the rumble of the tires on the snow sounding inside the vehicle. The roads were getting worse, slowing them down. At this rate, Bridgette would be long gone before they made it to Livingston.
A few minutes passed before his buddy shook his head. “So, that’s what this is really about.” He slowed a bit in order to gaze over at Sam for more than just a second before turning back to the road and picking up speed. “You gotta let that go, Midnight. Gray’s death wasn’t your fault.”
He held up his hand, cutting off Sam’s reply. “He was a fucking Army Ranger. He’d made a hundred HAHO jumps, just like that one. He had to know something was off, but he chose to jump. To ignore the symptoms and put everyone else at risk. Probably not consciously. But that doesn’t change the fact that he did. And you did everything you could to save his ass. But, sometimes…shit just happens. Time to bury it. Send his ghost to the other side for good.”
Sam stared at him. Fuck, when had he become this open book?
Ice chuckled. “Close your mouth before your face gets stuck that way. I’m not blind. Been on almost as many missions with you as the rest of your unit. Not sure why I seemed to get stuck with your sorry ass all the time, but I know that look in your eyes. See it in the mirror, myself. But there comes a time when we gotta move forward. Bridgette’s your new mission.” He punched Sam in the shoulder. “So, suit up, and let’s go get the little minx before she makes me drive all the way to fucking Seattle.” He winked at Sam. “I hate Seattle. All that rain.”
Some of the tension eased. Not much, but enough that Sam was able to breathe. “Well, if you’d stop driving like a pussy, we’d be in Livingston, already.”
Ice smiled. “You know I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
“Then, you’ll go apeshit when I tell you to—”
A blast of music drowned out his voice. He looked at his phone, frowning at the unknown number. “Montgomery.”
A throat cleared on the other end. “Is this Sam Montgomery? First Lieutenant Samuel Montgomery?”
“Used to be. Who’s this?”
“Jack Taylor. Special Agent Jack Taylor. George Hayward gave me your number.”
Sam glanced at Ice then put the call on speaker, even though Ice had seemed to hear every word between him and Bridgette. “You’re Bridg’s FBI friend. She…mentioned you a few times.”
“That sounds perfectly ominous.”
“You seem to be one of the few people she trusts. That says a lot. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been trying to reach Bridgette, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. It’s vital I speak with her. Immediately.”
The hairs on Sam’s neck stood up. He knew that tone. It meant trouble. “She’s driving back to Livingston to pick up some of her belongings. I’m with Russel Foster. He’s an Air Force PJ. Tough as nails. Trustworthy. I’ve got you on speaker, just so you know. We’re not too far behind her. Had a couple of loose ends to tie up. Just took down a squad of Stevens’ men during an attempt on Bridgette’s life. Looks like the worst is over.”
Silence. Again.
“Jack? You still there?”
“There’s been a…development. One I’m concerned about.” The man’s sigh echoed through the cab. “How much do you know about a guy named Brock Worthington?”
The name nearly set Sam off, and he had to consciously clench his muscles to keep from slamming his fist against the dash. “He’s Senator Worthington’s son, and also happens to be the sick son of a bitch who put Bridg in the hospital.” Dead man walking if Sam had his way.
“I see she told you. Then, you’re aware I’ve been keeping tabs on him. On the family. Just in case anything developed that might give Bridgette a chance at nailing his ass for what he did. Or if he decided there needed to be a round two.”
Not as long as Sam was able to breathe. “She mentioned that, which I appreciate. Bridgette has a hard time asking for help. Seems to think she has to do everything herself to prove she’s strong.”
“Agreed. Which is why I dug a bit deeper after the incident in her building. The way she described the guy who’d followed her—it didn’t sound like a gang member to me. Creeped me the hell out, to be honest.”
A dull roar sounded in Sam’s ears, and he had to focus on each finger in order to release his death grip on his phone. “What did you say?”
Another length of silence. “Shit. She didn’t tell you about it. About being followed. Hunted, really. How the guy had been masked. Had a big gun with a suppressor. That he’d shot up her Jeep.”
A mix of white-hot anger and fear scorched through Sam’s body, making it hard to breathe. To sit there without punching everything in sight. Suppressors weren’t standard fair for drug dealers and gang members. “I read the report on the Jeep. It didn’t mention any bullets.”
“They never found any inside, so they marked it down as vandalism. Fucking rookies. Thankfully, she gave half of the photos and the note the bastard had left on her desk to me before heading home to Montana. She’s smart. Thought my department might have more resources to unearth some evidence. ID the prick.”
Christ, this just got worse the more Jack talked. “He’d left her photos? And a note? What the fuck did it say?”
“I’m coming for you.”
“Damn it. I knew she was hiding stuff from me, but I thought she’d come clean. No wonder she’s been distant the past twenty-four hours. She’s feeling guilty about not telling me. About how it might have influenced a few important decisions.” He pushed his hand through his hair. “You think Worthington’s the guy behind the mask?”
“The fact she can still press charges makes him a suspect in my books every time she gets threatened.” Jack mumbled under his breath. “She needs to find a new vocation. But…so far, my suspicions have never panned out.”
“That implies they’ve panned out this time.”
“The day she got those photos, a Bureau task force raided a health club in the posher side of town. It was being used as a waylay point for drugs, weapons, sex trade workers. Anything and everything that makes your skin crawl. The club is owned by a shell company that leads back to—”
“The Worthingtons.”
“You got it. We’ve suspected for years that Senator Worthington was involved in arms dealings, human trafficking, and money laundering. But haven’t been able to connect him to anything. This bust—it’s huge. Not only does it implicate the senator in illegal undertakings, the drugs they found tie him back to Alex Stevens. With Stevens’ trial on the horizon, the team bagged and tagged everything. Every toothpick, every damn condom in the machines. It’s taken a month to catalogue everything and connect the dots, which is why it only popped up on my radar a couple of days ago. When I saw the report, I pulled a few strings. Finally got a list of their inventory. There’s a knife listed on there with a photo.”
Sam’s blood turned to ice. Froze him from the inside out. He tried to form a sentence but only managed to repeat the word, “Knife.”
Jack sighed, again. “I know how you feel. When I saw the photo with the tip of the blade broken off—the same fucking type that had disappeared from the hospital… It took me ten minutes to remember how to breathe. I got clearance to retrieve the knife this morning, since it’s not really vital to either case. It had been packed away in an old toolbox in a safe. Probably been there since that night. It’s the one. I’ll bet my life on it.”
Sam swallowed in the hopes of getting his damn throat to work. “Bridgette doesn’t know, yet, does she?”
“No way she could have. The team organizing Stevens’ case didn’t have all the information from the new bust that’s relevant to her case until a few hours ago when it got put into evidence. They were going to walk her through everything once she’d returned. Which means—”
“Only Brock knew the significance of it before Stevens’ lawyers would have gotten notice of the new evidence this morning. Only he and his father knew it could tie them to Stevens’ drug cartel, not to mention linking Brock back to Bridgette’s assault. No way to avoid it, this time. It all would have come out during the trial.”
“Unless someone kills the only person that can substantiate the claims. Make the connections. But…I don’t see Stevens caring if Worthington goes down. Not if he’s already neck deep. Why not take a big political figure down with him?”
Ice cleared his throat. “But, then, why did Stevens send all those men after her? A couple already admitted they were sent here by that bastard. Are hoping to cut deals.”
Jack breathed into the phone. “I have no doubts Stevens sent most of the threats. Tried to get her to throw the case. But who’s to say Stevens was the one who sent this last batch? If he’s in bed with Worthington the way we think he is, the good senator could have been behind the latest contract. Made it appear like Alex Stevens had sent the orders. Bridgette hasn’t sought the death penalty for him, yet. But, if an assistant US Attorney ends up dead at the hands of his known associates…”
Sam growled. “It’d be the first thing her successor does. And, if they don’t have enough to charge Worthington, to actually prove he’s a partner, Stevens dies, and Worthington’s in the clear. That might explain why the previous threats were mostly for show. Those were the ones that actually came from Stevens.”
Fuck. He’d had that hunch all along. That there might be more to this than a drug lord trying to intimidate an attorney. That it would be the perfect time to piggyback another agenda.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Worthington has some ace up his sleeve that’s going to put his association with Stevens in question. The guy had deep pockets and enormous connections. The only thing he can’t control is what Brock did to Bridgette. It’s on record. We all know Dwayne Worthington bought his son’s freedom. That knife will prove they lied. It’s the proverbial smoking gun.”
Sam glanced at the dot. It had stopped. She was home.
He bit back another curse. “Hey, Jack? I don’t suppose you know what kind of car Brock drives?”
Jack snorted. “Funny you should ask. He drives a Stingray. Black. Kitted out. Reeks of blood money. Why?”
“Shit. We’re almost in Livingston. Call whoever you trust that’s close. Tell them to head to Bridgette’s house. I’ll call Hank. Get him to get his ass there any way he can. This isn’t over.”