The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

He had to admit, it was a beautiful program. Andy had done well. He smiled as he hit the button, launched the attack. The countdown clock started in the window.

His beautiful bomb would show the world power beyond belief. There was no stopping it now, and no stopping him. He was set, he was ready to go, ready to change the world, locked and loaded.

He was whistling as he shoved the gun in his waistband, grabbed his bag. He was only forty minutes from downtown D.C. This time he would do it right. This time he would look into her sightless eyes and know she was finally dead.

If it was a trap, he’d still make it happen, and who cared if he bit the big one? Maybe he didn’t care, he was no longer sure about it.

As he closed the door to the motel, hung up the flimsy DO NO

T DISTURB sign, he wondered how long it would be before someone went into that room.

Good-bye, Andy.

He was still whistling as he walked to the car.

64

PAWN TO B5

Georgetown

Mike stuck her face in the shower stream of the hot water. She was angry, but she knew it was no use getting into another fight with Nicholas. In the morning she’d present her case to Dillon, maybe Mr. Maitland, that she would be the best at playing Vanessa. It wasn’t like she was helpless—no, she’d have her Glock. She was fast and smart. She was a professional.

She fumed and fretted as she towel-dried her hair, combed it out, and pushed it off her face, hooking it behind her ears. She pulled a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt out of her go-bag.

The bed looked nice and firm, the way she liked it. She had to admit she was dog-tired, and the bruises were singing out loud and clear. She cursed Nicholas one last time and pulled back the covers.

There was a knock at her door.

“Yes?”

Nicholas opened the door, closed it behind him.

“We need to talk.”

She eased out of bed and stood facing him, hands on her hips. “There is absolutely nothing to talk about, unless you’re ready to stop being such a lamebrain about me taking Vanessa’s place. I am a professional, Nicholas, I’ve played bait before, not a problem. I’ll be armed, not helpless, like Vanessa. And I’d—”

He waved his hand in front of her. “Pay attention, Caine. This is a CIA op. Bait will be a CIA operative. Hang it up.”

That stopped her mid-rant. She should have come to that obvious conclusion, which went to prove how tired she was, even her brain was operating at twenty watts. It hurt to say it, but she did. “Very well, I suppose you’re right. It’s too bad, their mistake. What did you want to talk about?”

“About what didn’t happen today, between us. I think we should, don’t you?”

She took a step back. “There is nothing to talk about, since nothing happened. How many times do I have to tell you that? You’re like a dog with a bone. And isn’t that fitting? No talk, do you hear me?”

“Is a dog with a bone better than a bad dog? Never mind. Since you’re shouting again, of course I can hear you. I like those pants and that shirt—what does it say?”

She looked down at her chest. It was one of her favorites: FEEL SAFE, SLEEP WITH A COP.

“So you can read. Bravo.”

He grinned. “Yes, okay, I want to feel safe.”

She stared at him. He was wearing pajama bottoms that came low on his hips and a T-shirt, black and snug, and she kept staring.

In the next instant, she ran those six feet across the room and he grabbed her up in his arms, brought her long legs around his waist, and pulled her tight against him.

“Mike—Michaela.” The words sounded magic in her mouth and in her brain, and she was kissing him like there was nothing else in the world but the two of them.