Power Play (FBI Thriller 18)

She walked to stand over him. “So you can’t sleep? Why? Hooley looked great today with Connie hovering all over him.”

“Nice to see Beef has an admirer, and Connie, of all women. I think they make a great couple.”

“And Mom had a great day, meeting with the president, getting his support and all the security she needs. Even Arliss came around.”

“So why don’t I see you sleeping, either?”

She began to pace in front of him, then turned. “I don’t know. There’s lots to think about.”

And it’s finally getting to you. He watched her meander around her living room, pause here and there to straighten a book, a picture. “Do you know when I first saw you on your hog in my driveway, when was it—five days ago—with your punk girl boots, that space-age helmet and all the black leather, I thought, Dear Lord, what wonderful gift have you landed in my driveway?”

“What?” She turned so fast she hit her shin against the coffee table, yelped, and bent over, rubbing furiously.

“You heard me. Those black boots with their kick-ass little chains. You nearly stopped my heart.”

“You’re a pitiful liar.”

“Not altogether. If you’d been humming, say, ‘Time Bomb’ by Rancid, I would have expired right there on the concrete with my neighbor Mr. Mulroney looking on, shaking his head, wondering if you had tattoos beneath all that black leather.”

“Only one tattoo.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Where? What?”

“None of your business. It didn’t hurt very much. No worse than childbirth, I’m told.”

“I hadn’t heard that, though I doubt any guy would know what to make of that comparison.”

“Guys don’t like to admit they feel pain of any kind. Take Hooley today, lying there all stoic, trying to smile when you called him Beef and told him you were considering becoming a vegetarian.”

“He couldn’t wimp out in front of Connie, could he?”

Perry paused, looked at him still lying on the sofa, relaxed and calm, watching her. “Have you ever been hurt in the FBI? Not at Quantico, I mean, on the job?”

“Not recently. Well, I gotta say that a couple of weeks ago I flew the sister of a new agent in the unit back to Washington from Maestro, Virginia. She was studying at the Stanislaus School of Music, got herself into a fix. By the end of the flight she was trying to kick me out of the plane because we disagreed on the music.” Davis shook his head, picked up a glass of water from the coffee table and took a drink. “Women who can’t accept good music can be unforgiving.”

She wanted to laugh, maybe throw something at him, or maybe drag him onto the carpet and rip his white undershirt over his head.

Whoa.

“I’m going to bed. Alone.”

A dark brow went up, but unfortunately the effect was lost in the dim light. Davis said, “I don’t recall inviting myself in to spoon with you. I don’t snore, by the way. Good night.”

“Great to hear, Davis. Good night.” She left the living room, went down the short hall, and snapped her bedroom door shut. Davis lay back down, his head cradled in his arms, and smiled at the ceiling, but for only a moment. He had a lot to think about, too.

Savich’s house

Saturday night, near midnight

They thought they were so smart, so sneaky, kneeling behind the thick bushes at the side of their house, pressed in close. They were waiting for him to show himself, waiting to kill him. They had no idea he’d been watching them since they’d hunkered down in those bushes. Nearly two hours now.

Blessed looked through the window of their neighbor’s darkened living room, sipping a cup of hot chocolate. They had to be cold and miserable out there, as he had been the night before, standing in the shadows away from the pole lights in the hospital parking lot, pacing between the cars, watching and waiting.

He’d come back last night to this house in time to see them rush out. He’d followed them to the hospital, watched them pull up under one of the lights and hurry in, Sherlock’s red hair an incredible flame under that fierce beaming light. Her face was pale, pinched. He’d never seen her look so grim. Savich showed no expression, always the hard man, no give in him at all. Blessed hated himself for the fear he felt, and that made him hate Savich more.

Somebody was hurt, somebody important to them, had to be, to bring them to the hospital so late. Blessed wondered who, but he didn’t really care. It was too cold to worry about it, waiting there in the parking lot all that time. All he’d seen was half a dozen people leaving the hospital for the night, looking exhausted. There was a steadier flow of people showing up to the ER, some of them limping, moaning, crying. People had no guts anymore. Pinch them on the arm and they’d go off screaming and complaining. Damn gutless worms.