Poor Brig. First day in Vegas and his life was tumbling down.
“That’s how I knew you weren’t who you said you were,” Digby told me. “You couldn’t be legit since no one associated with the construction of the shelters exists, because the plan for shelters themselves doesn’t exist,” Digby plowed on, glancing at Dallas. He seemed to be looking for validation. He wanted, needed, to make himself useful. That was probably part of his deal.
I crossed my arms, studying him. “So tell me, Digby,” I began, drawing out his name, snide because I could be, and because it would irritate the hell out of him, “what did Special Agent Bauer catch you doing that the only way to get yourself out was to betray one of your oldest friends?”
He hugged himself, distraught, and said nothing.
“I’d like to know that myself,” Brig demanded, his voice shaking. “Was whatever you were going to get out of this worth our friendship?”
Digby shook his head. “They caught me with a lot of blow, Brig. I just got back from Cabo and––”
“Sure,” Brig said, exhaling loudly, turning away, back to staring out the window. “Why the hell is it so cold here? It’s Vegas, for God’s sake.”
I appreciated the griping. It meant he wasn’t wallowing in self-pity, and I found myself liking the man quite a bit, but he couldn’t ignore what he’d just heard either.
“I told them I wasn’t going to sell it,” Digby plowed on, wanting to try and explain it all away so Brig would forgive him. “It was for personal use, and for my friends at parties, and––”
“Enough,” Brig ordered him, defeated, and he let his head fall back, his eyes closed. “Eric told me never to trust you. I should have listened.”
Digby snorted. “Oh yes, Saint Eric. Tell me, Brig, does Astor know that she’s just a high-class beard, or does that stupid deb still think you’re going to marry her one of these days?”
I had to admit, I didn’t think Brig had it in him, not until he launched himself out of his seat. He seemed too proper, too restrained to attack anyone. His composure was impressive, but he was ready, then and there, to do some serious damage to Digby Ingram’s face, and he landed an impressive right jab before I could stop him.
Grabbing him by the collar of his jacket, I slammed Brig back down in his seat. “I swear on everything you hold dear, if you make Agent Tanner lose control of this car and kill me, I will haunt you for the rest of your life,” I yelled at him. “I’m the only one who’s had your back all day.”
“No, I—I’m sorry,” he rasped, face in his hands, tired now, I was sure, after the adrenaline crash.
We arrived at the field office in one piece, miraculously, no further brawls breaking out in the car, and Dallas rounded on me when I followed him through the door. I pulled my Glock and passed it to him before bending over to take the Microtech Ultratech UTX-70 OTF knife—fancy name for a switchblade—out of my boot. I knew the drill; he didn’t have to tell me.
“Holy shit,” Digby choked out as I straightened up. His nose wasn’t bleeding anymore, but he was going to have a beauty of a black eye.
“I knew it,” Dallas said, his voice silky, appreciative, grinning at me, testing the knife, seeing and feeling how fast and smooth the action of the blade was. “No doubt in my mind, from that takedown at the bar, that you could’ve killed him, easy.”
“In hindsight, I probably should have,” I informed him, glancing at Digby and then back at the FBI agent. “But there were too many people around.” I smiled to let him know I was kidding, of course. Mostly.
His return grin was sexy as hell.
“And I was a cop,” I continued, “as you probably know from the background check you ran on me.”
He nodded. “Why only six years on the job?”
“It was enough.”
“Really? You’ve got an awfully fancy degree from Berkley to use it to be a cop. You never aspired to something more?”
I shrugged. “I’m a low achiever.”
“Yeah, I seriously doubt that,” he said, chuckling, and then turned to lead us all down a long hall.
We were separated then. Digby was taken to one room while Brig and I were taken to another. I took a seat while Brig paced.
“How can you just sit there?” he asked, fidgeting, fists at his sides one second, arms crossed over his chest the next, only to brace himself against the wall a moment after that.
“What you’re doing right now will wear you out,” I assured him, putting my feet up. “You should stand to stretch your legs only when you need to, but otherwise, conserve your energy. We’re going to be here for a while.”