Dark of Night Page 4

  “I just think we all need a little space,” Decker told him quietly, pouring a cup of water from the pitcher on Jimmy's tray.

  “Fair enough.” Jimmy nodded. “We don't tell Dave. And sorry if I brought an unwanted picture to mind.”

  Decker handed him the water. “Drink,” he ordered as he headed back out of the room. “Lots. I want to get the hell out of here.”

  Jimmy drank.

  The place really was perfect.

  Eight bedrooms, ten baths, indoor and outdoor swimming pools, outfitted gym with a climbing wall, home theater, chefs kitchen, fully furnished and equipped—all sitting like a castle atop the summit of a mountain.

  And FBI agent Jules Cassidy had the key to the front door in his pocket.

  And, okay, this probably wasn't a mountain for most people, but Jules had grown up in the Northeast where the mountains were ancient and tree-covered and worn. Here in California—home of that nifty geological phenomenon known as the Sierra Nevadas—this thing jutting up between two desert valleys really was just a very steep, ragged little hill.

  But for Jules's intents and purposes—which were many and varied—a hill of this magnitude was mountain enough.

  “Two million dollars,” Sam Starrett mused as he stood at the wall of sliders that opened onto a deck overlooking the scenic desert valley to the south. “He's working for a month, and they're paying him two million dollars. That's… what? Over sixty-five thousand dollars a day. A day.”

  “Yeah, but you see,” Jules pointed out, “after his agent takes his cut, and after taxes and expenses? It works out to be only about half that much, so, you know, it's not that big a deal.”

  Sam turned and looked at him, eyebrows up.

  “Kidding,” Jules said, laughing at his friend. “It's a huge deal. It amazing.”

  Jules's husband, Robin, had come ridiculously far in the years since he'd publicly acknowledged that he was gay, and had gone into rehab for his alcoholism. His had been a coming-out of epic proportions, since he was on the verge of becoming one of Hollywood's leading action-adventure stars.

  And while Robin's two-million-dollar paycheck for his role in this film was impressive, there had been a time, right before he first came out of the closet, that he could have demanded five times that amount. But Robin hadn't cared. He'd chosen sunlight and honesty over guaranteed fortune and fame. He'd chosen Jules, and had worked his ass off to stay sober. It was never going to be easy, but he now had over two alcohol-and drug-free years under his belt.

  The naysayers had assumed his career was over.

  The naysayers were not only freaking nincompoops, they were, as it turned out, seriously wrong freaking nincompoops. Proof was in the Emmy that sat on the mantel of the home Jules and Robin shared in Boston.

  Robin was psyched to be doing this movie—a science fiction action-adventure—during his hit TV show's summer hiatus. He was pleased to be making that much money, but he was most excited about using this opportunity to help out Jules with what they'd been referring to lately as “his little extracurricular project.”

  The film was shooting nearby in the desert as well as six hours away in San Diego. Robin wouldn't be staying at this fabulous fortress of a house every night, but he'd be here as often as he could. And he'd be footing the bill—a fact that he generously shrugged off as “no big deal.”

  “Do you think we should form a search party and go after Alyssa and Ash?” Jules asked Sam now.

  “I was checking out the security room.” Alyssa's voice carried up the stairs before she appeared, little Ashton—nearly six months old—on her hip. With his baby-smooth mocha brown skin—as beautiful as his mother's —and his father's blue eyes, he was a remarkably cute baby, with a gleeful smile that was all his own. “May I state for the record that this place has a security room? There are forty-two video cameras and God knows how many motion sensors, not just out by the fence, but around the house as well.” She exhaled a laugh and added some attitude. “If you can call this castle a house.”

  Sam took Ashton from his wife and sat on the leather sofa with the baby on his lap, putting his cowboy-booted feet up on the heavy wood coffee table. Clunk, clunk. “I myself couldn't help but notice the industrial-strength backup generator,” he drawled, heavy on the Texas —he'p instead of help—as he made a face at his son, who chortled with laughter.

  “And by the way, that fence? Electric,” Alyssa informed Sam as she sat down next to him, fishing in her bag for Ash's binky. “The gate's the kind the government uses at embassies in countries that tend to end in -stan. You will not be getting visitors dropping by unexpectedly.”

  “You can see for miles from that deck.” Sam turned to Alyssa. “What do you figure? About fifty clicks on a clear day?”

  “At least. Anyone who wants to get through that gate without permission”—Alyssa wasn't done talking about the fence—“ is going to have to use a substantial amount of C-4. And once they do, they've got, what? Two miles of completely exposed driveway up to the house?”

  “One and eight tenths,” Jules corrected her.

  Both of them turned to look at him with nearly identical concern as he made himself comfortable in the easy chair across from them.

  Alyssa put voice to their question. “Is Robin having trouble with another stalker?”

  Jules shook his head. “No. I mean, yeah, there're always the fans who go too far, so we've learned to be careful, but this is—”

  “A freaking fortress,” Sam finished for him.

  “Yes, it is,” Jules agreed.

  “What's going on?” Alyssa asked.

  Jules cleared his throat. Crossed his legs. “Before I tell you this,” he said, “I want to state that it's both an advantage and a disadvantage that you guys are my best friends.”

  Sam looked at Alyssa and covered Ash's little ears. “Why can't he ever ask us for a favor without having to make a fucking speech?” Despite the covered ears, he only mouthed the F-bomb.

  “I have no idea.” Alyssa settled back on the couch, getting comfortable. “But part of being a good friend is letting your friends talk, so …”

  Sam turned to Jules, clearly not willing to climb aboard Alyssa's train of serene acceptance. “Yes,” he said. “Whatever you're gonna ask us to do? We'll do it.”

  “But see, that's my point,” Jules said. “I don't want any of us to feel as if I'm taking advantage of our friendship—”

  “Help me out here, Ash,” Sam told his son as he turned the baby to face Jules. “Tell your Uncle Squidward that we're happy to assist.” He spoke in a squeaky baby-voice that was just too funny. “We're happy to assist.”

  Laughing, Jules shook his head as he looked at his friends. Alyssa had been an officer in the Navy before she joined the FBI. She'd worked for the Bureau for years—as Jules's partner. She'd left at about the same time she'd married Sam, who'd served as an officer in legendary U.S. Navy SEAL Team Sixteen. Sam had managed to get himself into some trouble, and rather than take a desk job, he'd retired from the military. At which point the pair of them went to work for former SEAL Tom Paoletti's civilian personal security firm, Troubleshooters Incorporated.

  Alyssa was Tom's XO, or second-in-command, which made her Sam's boss, go figure.

  Jules persisted. “When I say any of us? I'm including me. And I kind of feel as if I'm—”

  “If you're asking us to camp out here to help keep the crazies away from Robin,” Sam interrupted, “it's not exactly going to be a hardship.”

  “I already picked out our suite,” Alyssa added.

  Sam looked at her. “The one with the blue drapes?”

  She nodded. “With the extra room that could be the nursery. You see that bathroom? I think it's bigger than our kitchen.”

  “Nice shower.” He nodded. “Very nice shower. Although the suite on the third floor—”

  “That one's ours. And this isn't about Robin,” Jules said again, interrupting them. “He's renting this house, yes. And he'l
l be staying here, with me, part of this month, and possibly even longer, if the situation doesn't rectify itself and will you please let me tell you what this is about before you say yes?”

  “I'm pretty sure that ship has sailed,” Sam pointed out.

  “What situation?” Alyssa asked, silencing her husband with an amusedly pointed look.

  “I'm just saying,” Sam said with a shrug.

  And with that, alleluia, they were now sitting there quietly, waiting for Jules to explain, finally giving him a chance to talk.

  “I've got an operative in hiding, who needs a safe house to rehab and regroup.” He chose his words carefully, because until they signed on he couldn't tell them too much. “He worked in the black ops sector of a government agency and believes that he's been marked for what he calls deletion— which is exactly what it sounds like. I've kept him separate from any of the official protection programs, because we haven't identified the person or persons who've tried to kill him. But we do believe that whoever they are, they have access to top secret, high-clearance-level information.”

  “Shit,” Sam covered Ash's ears to say. He glanced at Alyssa before asking Jules, “You're absolutely certain that your operative isn't, um, how do I put this? The problem?”

  “He's not, and I am,” Jules said. “Certain.”

  “Black ops create … certain pressures for operatives,” Sam pointed out. “Some agents go rogue.”

  “Oh, he's rogue, all right,” Jules said. “But not the way you mean. I trust this man. Completely.”

  “Enough to risk your career,” Alyssa said. It wasn't quite a question, but it wasn't quite not, either.

  So Jules answered as if it were. “Yes.”

  “What career?” Sam scoffed.

  “Hey,” Jules told him. “ S-squared, SpongeBob. I happen to love Boston.”

  “I can't help but notice, Toto,” Sam said, “that we're not in Boston anymore.”

  Jules sighed, exasperated. “I'm on vacation. May I please continue?”

  “There's more?”

  “Yeah,” Jules said a tad sharply. “The important part. The part where—”

  “We might find ourselves investigating corruption deep inside a government agency?” Alyssa interrupted this time. “That's basic math, Jules. I think we've already figured that out. At least I have.” She looked at her husband.

  “Durrr,” he said.

  “This could be extremely dangerous,” Jules had to tell them.

  “Eek,” Sam deadpanned.

  “You said rehab” Alyssa asked. “Your man's been injured?”

  He nodded. “Gunshot wound to the chest. He's gonna need a month of hard work to get back to speed. Maybe a little less because he's … who he is.”

  Alyssa glanced at Sam before asking Jules, “I assume you're going to take the utmost precautions when you move him in here.”

  “That's one of the things I was hoping you could help me with,” he told them. “My plan was to bring him in when Robin arrives tomorrow.”

  “We do this right,” Sam said, with a glance at Alyssa, “and no one will know your man is here. It'll look to the world like we're taking a high-end vacation with our fruity and very rich friends.”

  “Without Ashton?” she asked.

  “I say we bring him,” Sam said. “The alternative is to see if Mary Lou can take him, but… After seeing this place, I'm convinced he'd be safer here with us.” He looked at Jules. “You okay with that?”

  “Of course.”

  Alyssa asked, “How actively is your operative being hunted?”

  “We're pretty sure they think he's dead,” Jules told them. “Whoever they are.”

  “Define pretty sure” Sam said.

  “His own friends think he's dead,” Jules said. “I can count the number of people who know that he's not, on the fingers of one hand.”

  “So the goal,” Alyssa clarified, “is both to keep your man alive and to find out who wanted to ‘delete’ him.”

  Sam laughed. “You know, some people actually go to Disneyland when they take a vacation?”

  “Are you in?” Jules asked.

  “Absolutely,” they said in unison, then looked at each other and added, “Owe me a … Coke,” also at the same time, down to the pause before Coke and the smile that followed it.

  Euphemism, anyone?

  “One condition,” Sam said, reluctantly pulling his attention away from his wife's loaded smile. “If we meet him and don't get the same warm fuzzies you obviously feel for him, we walk away and keep our mouths shut.”

  “Deal,” Jules said.

  “Who is he?” Alyssa asked. “Do we know him? Oh, my God, Jules—”

  “Gunshot wound to the chest?” Sam spoke over her, putting it together at the same moment. “Son of a bitch! Is it… ?”

  “James Nash,” Jules told them. It no longer surprised him that out of the two of them, it was Sam whose eyes instantly filled with tears.

  “Ah, Jesus,” he said. “Does Tess know?” He answered his own question. “Of course she knows. And Decker. … Holy. …” He held Ash out for Jules. “Will you … Please … I gotta …”

  Jules took the baby and carried him down the stairs. “Come on, Ash-ton, let's find the playroom, see what kind of toys come with this joint,” he said, drowning out Sam's voice as he embraced Jules's good news with a resounding “Holy, holy fuck!”

  “I don't think you should go. Not for him,” Dave told Sophia, as calmly and evenly as he always sounded. “I think you should go for you.”

  Her Aunt Maureen had tracked Sophia down a few years ago. She hadn't even realized she had an aunt before that startling call—and she wasn't at all sure she wanted one at this late date. But the brusque, stern-voiced woman now phoned every few months, trying to guilt, shame, or bully Sophia into visiting her dying father.

  Of course, Paul Miles had been dying for quite a few years now.

  “You honestly think I'll find closure?” Sophia asked Dave as she stepped into her panties and put on her bra, her movements jerky with her frustration and anger.

  “No,” he said, reaching for her, catching her arm and tugging her back to the bed, where he was still stretched out, still naked and extremely male, and yet still solidly Dave. Her champion, her hero, her lover—and her best friend. “I doubt you'll ever find closure. I just think—”

  “I have nothing to say to him,” she interrupted. It was what she always said to Maureen—and to Dave, too—whenever her aunt called.

  It was funny—the turmoil caused by Maureen's phone calls had always made Sophia run straight to Dave. They'd talked about her father frequently over the past few years, and about whether or not Sophia should go to Boston to see him before he died.

  But never while Dave was naked and sprawled on her bed.

  “Maybe you don't have anything to say,” he told her now. “Or maybe you just think that you don't. Maybe going to Boston to see him will—”

  “I was eleven years old,” Sophia said flatly.

  He blinked, then blanched. “What?”

  “Eleven years, one month,” she said. “It was four weeks to the day after my birthday.”

  “You told me you were a teenager. I thought—”

  “I lied,” Sophia informed him, but then had to turn away from the maelstrom of emotion in Dave's usually bemused hazel eyes. “Because I didn't want you to look at me the way you're looking at me right now.”

  “Let's go to Boston,” he said quietly. “So I can kill him.”

  Sophia shook her head. “That's not funny.”

  “I'm not kidding.” Now his eyes were hard, almost flat. She'd spent most of her life around dangerous men, and she'd seen that look before, but rarely-to-never in Dave's eyes.

  “Don't,” she said. “If I'd wanted a caveman, I never would've given up on Decker.” And okay, she'd not only spoken too sharply, she'd spoken too thoughtlessly. She immediately apologized. “Sorry. Sorry.”

  Too late.
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  But her harsh words had done the trick. Dave was back. Kind, warm, smart and funny, slightly goofy Dave. Who, as usual, pushed his own hurt feelings aside in order to focus on her. In order to take care of her. To make sure she knew that she mattered to him—more than anything else in the world. To make sure she knew she was safe and loved.

  “Your parents never came back?” he asked. “Not even to … to … pick up their things?” She shook her head, but he still couldn't believe it, saying, “So from the time that you were eleven … ?”

  “I was on my own,” Sophia verified for him. “Yes.”

  Maureen had insisted that her darling brother had left his only child in Katmandu, believing her to be in her mother's care, and that Sophia's crazy mother, Cleopatra Farrell—she'd legally changed her name from Cynthia—had left, believing Sophia to be safe with Paul. It was a simple mistake. An unfortunate accident.

  But a month after her eleventh birthday, Sophia had woken up to find herself alone in an unfamiliar country, with no money, no passport, and only enough food to last a scant few days.

  She was too young to know that she could go to the embassy. It never occurred to her that the consulate might be able to help. There was only their angry landlord shouting about the money her parents owed, and pushing her out into the street when she couldn't pay him. She'd cried—What will I do?—and he'd slapped her and told her to be a man, to do what other boys her age were doing: get a job, become an apprentice to a craftsman.

  She could tell that Dave was imagining a nightmare of a different kind for a little blond girl alone on the streets, so she quickly reassured him. “I dressed like a boy. All my clothes were hand-me-downs, and … About two months earlier, I had a bad case of lice, and my mother …” She tried to make it a joke. “Thanks to her work ethic, which was if you don't have to, don't, she didn't try to, you know. Comb out the nits. She just shaved my head. My hair was still short so …”

  Left to fend for herself, even at eleven, she'd instinctively known she'd be better off not advertising the fact that she was a girl.

  “Everyone thought I was a boy, so I played along,” she told him.

  “Miles Farrell,” Dave said. It was the name by which he'd first known her, back in her previous life—back when her husband, Dimitri, was still alive. “Your father's and mother's last names.”