Generation 18 (Spook Squad 2)

She raised an eyebrow. “I sense a ‘but’ coming here.”

“But I think it’s more important right now that we go visit old Uncle Mark.”

She frowned. “Who’s Uncle Mark?”

“Mark Allars.”

Anger rose, and she had to clench a fist against the sudden urge to whack him across the ear. “You know him?”

His gaze, when it met hers, held absolutely no expression. She might as well have been staring at granite. “He’s an old friend of my father’s.”

“And you kept that from me? Knowing Allars was one of the names on my birth certificate?”

“You told me not to push you.”

“But I didn’t tell you to hold back vital information!” She stopped and shook her head. “My future lies in my past; you said that yourself. You keep saying you want me to discover who and what I am, yet you hold back something like this, something that could provide a vital clue. Why?”

“Because if you were ready to know, you would have done something. How long did that certificate sit in the drawer before you gathered the courage to even do a search on the names?”

“You tell me. You obviously went through my drawers to find it.”

His gaze slipped from hers. “I was looking for a pen to write you a note.”

A note she never got. “Why? Did the email go down that day?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away. The left shoulders of his jacket and shirt were torn, revealing several cuts. Blood oozed down his lightly tanned shoulder blade.

“Maybe,” he said, after a moment, “I just wanted to say hello in person.”

“More likely you were ready to berate me for not finishing some inane task you’d set.” She glanced over her shoulder as the wailing sirens drew abruptly closer. Two fire engines had entered the parking lot. Behind the trucks came two gray Fords.

“I’m not always a bastard, Sam.”

No, sometimes he could be infuriatingly nice; at other times, just infuriating. Then there were the times when he just looked at her, as if contemplating a fantasy he would never allow…

The two Fords pulled to a halt in front of the stand of trees. Three men and a woman climbed out. Gabriel walked across and chatted to them for several minutes, then came back, carrying two plastic bags.

“Here’s a pair of pants to change into.” He tossed her a bag. “I want that leg seen to before you do, though. You’re bleeding fairly heavily.”

She glanced down. Her right boot was covered in blood, yet she hadn’t even felt any pain. It was amazing what fear and anger could do. “Whose clothes are we borrowing?”

“No one’s. I asked Sandy to pick something up.”

“Sandy being the blonde, I gather?”

“Yes.”

“So how does she know my size?” She didn’t bother asking how Sandy knew his size. That was patently obvious.

“I told her you’re roughly the same size as her.” His voice was as cold as the look in his hazel eyes. “She’s got a medi-kit in the car. Get over there and let her look at that wound.”

“Immediately, sir,” she said, and saluted him.

His gaze narrowed and he muttered something she couldn’t quite catch before turning away. Good, she thought. It was about time she started getting some of her own back. She walked over to the second car. Sandy was your average model type—leggy, a figure to die for, and sapphire-colored eyes. Stunning, in other words—though the term “bitch” also lingered in Sam’s thoughts.

“Agent Ryan,” Sandy greeted her, a warm smile touching her full red lips. “You’d best sit down while I tend to that wound. You’re losing a fair amount of blood there.”

Sam felt her hackles rising and couldn’t understand why. The woman was being nice, for Christ’s sake. Maybe that was the problem. It was something she wasn’t entirely used to—especially given her partner’s behavior of late.