The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

He would swear Mike growled as she passed by. Swanson called out, “Hey, Agent Caine. Good to see you again so soon. No warm hellos for me?”

“Yeah, big hello, Craig. I’d like to belt you, but it looks like you really can’t take much more.”

He automatically touched his fingers to the white tape, then looked at Nicholas once more. “You broke my nose, you flippin’ Brit bastard.”

Nicholas shrugged. “I told you to stop fighting me, mate, gave you lots of chances to back off. It’s your own fault.”

“That’s enough,” Carl Grace said. “Status, Craig?”

The aggression switch flipped off instantly. “Sir, Vanessa is awake and hurting, but holding it together. No one’s come near her who shouldn’t.”

Grace nodded and Swanson knocked once, then opened the door.

Vanessa saw Mike Caine first, blond hair pulled back from her face in a fat ponytail, black biker boots, black pants and jacket, and a nice black eye. From Craig? He’d told her he’d gotten into it with a couple of FBI pussies in New York. But his nose, she’d asked him? Two against one, he’d said. But now she didn’t believe him. Mike Caine could wipe the floor with Craig. And only two days before she’d looked as alive, her stride as confident, ready to take on the world.

“Michaela.” She realized she hadn’t said her name aloud, only thought it—soft sounding, that name. She remembered she’d initially thought Mike Caine was a country bumpkin, but that hadn’t lasted long. What she was, Vanessa had realized, was fierce, committed, and focused. She remembered meeting Mike’s parents, her father a big solid cop with crinkly blue eyes, high up in the Omaha Police Department, and her mom, the Gorgeous Rebecca, Mike had told her she’d always been called. Wow, what a knockout, and Mike was a young version of her. She’d been funny, too, making jokes about how old everything was at Yale, how the bathrooms needed a major overhaul. Odd she’d remember that now.

Mike didn’t appear to have changed at all since Vanessa had seen her last—what was it? Yes, eight years ago at Yale.

Two big men followed her in—one she recognized from Bayway, Nicholas Drummond; the other she’d never seen before. He looked hard as nails and tough, a man who understood his world and controlled it, a man you didn’t cross, if your brain was working.

As for Drummond, she could feel the pull of him, feel the intensity pouring off him, feel his powerful focus on her, no one else in the room. He looked like he’d never back down, and she knew he’d never stop. Look what he’d done to Craig, and Craig was no pushover.

Their faces blurred and she blinked double time until they cleared. She hated the meds but knew without them she’d be whimpering in the fetal position. She had to be strong, she had to focus as much as Drummond, she had to get through this. She wanted to tell them everything, because only then could she let go and rest.

Her uncle closed the door quietly, walked up to her bed, gently took her hand in his. “Nessa, these are the FBI agents I told you were coming. I’ve told them you would try to answer all their questions, but if you can’t go on at any point, we’ll stop immediately, all right?”

She nodded, only a slight movement, but he smiled.

Carl Grace introduced the three of them.

“Special Agent Savich, he’s the head of the CAU—that’s Criminal Apprehension Unit—here in D.C. This gentleman is Special Agent Nicholas Drummond and his partner Special Agent Mike Caine, both of the New York office.”

Vanessa tried to smile at them, but her mouth didn’t want to move. She managed a whisper. “Agent Drummond, I’ve heard of you. As for Mike, hello. How are you?”

“I’m good, Vanessa.” Mike stepped up and took her other hand, gave it a very light squeeze. A thin sheet was pulled up to Vanessa’s neck, but the thick bandage around her chest was a grim reminder of what had happened to her. She looked bruised, Mike thought, through and through, as if her body were still wondering whether or not to keep going. And she looked so very tired, her face nearly as pale as the hospital sheets. Her beautiful red hair was lank around her head. Mike knew the meds were keeping her with them, but only barely.

“So you’ve heard of my partner, have you?”

Vanessa tried for a smile and managed a small one. “I gotta say, Mike, the guy is too hot for his own good. And that cleft in the chin, I’ve always been a sucker for those.” She didn’t say he looked like the predator he was, hard, no-nonsense, probably ate nails for breakfast, like Savich.

“It’s a pleasure, Agent Grace,” Nicholas said. “Mike’s told me a lot about you. As for the hole in my chin, it does make shaving a bother. Are you up for some questions?”

“Yes, there’s so much. Then I’m going to sleep for a month, well, maybe two months.” She closed her eyes for a moment. She hadn’t realized it would hurt so much to talk. Who cared? It was nothing compared to the Mack truck squatting on her chest. She could do this, she had to do this.

58

BISHOP TO F8

Savich pulled a chair up close, took her hand in his. “I know you very nearly died, Agent Grace. I know it’s a miracle you’re still with us. All of us are very pleased that you are. Your uncle is right, if you can’t go on, you simply tell us, and we’ll let you rest.” He paused for a moment, gauging how cogent she was. Enough, he thought. “Thank you for agreeing to answer our questions.” Savich then stood and backed away.

Nicholas came a bit closer, looked down at the woman who should by rights be dead twice over, what with the bullet to the chest and the fall from the burning building.

“Agent Grace told us you’ve been undercover in COE for the past four months. Can you tell us exactly what your mission was?”

“It all started with the chatter about a special new bomb under development, said to be undetectable by any of our scanners. The genius making this bomb, we found out, is Matthew Spenser, also known as the Bishop. He was operating out of Belfast at that time.