Generation 18 (Spook Squad 2)

She sat on the backseat and pulled up her pant leg. “I’ll survive.”

Another white smile flashed, revealing teeth that were as perfect as the rest of her. Sandy knelt, medi-kit in hand. “Yeah, I suppose you’re used to it, being Gabe’s partner.”

Gabe. Not Stern, not even Gabriel. Gabe. “You two are friends, I gather?”

“Old friends,” Sandy agreed, without looking up.

No dark roots, she thought. Either the dyeing techniques had improved dramatically or the woman was a natural blonde. “Do you still go out?”

“Occasionally. When we’ve both got free time.”

Which confirmed what she’d thought earlier. And shot her theory that Gabriel was little more than a hermit who lived for work to hell. “That’s nice.”

“It usually is,” Sandy agreed, glancing up.

The look in her eyes left Sam in no doubt that she was referring to horizontal rather than vertical pursuits. And somewhere deep inside, a vague spark of jealousy stirred. This woman saw a side of Gabriel she probably never would—but it was a side she wanted to see, and with a fierceness that was totally surprising.

Of course, to have a chance of seeing that side, she’d have to either stop being his partner or stop constantly sniping at him. And she wasn’t sure which was the lesser of two evils.

“You can change in the car, if you like. I’ll make sure the men don’t bother you.”

Like that was going to worry her, especially after ten years of sharing locker rooms with the men in State. But she nodded. Sandy picked up the medi-kit and shut the door, then sauntered across to the fire trucks to join Gabriel and the three other agents.

The pants turned out to be a pair of black denim jeans that fit like a glove. She wondered how Gabriel had guessed her size so precisely, because she and Sandy definitely weren’t the same size. He’d certainly never got into her pants, and waist size wasn’t something she’d felt inclined to mention. She threw her dark gray slacks into the bag, then climbed out of the car.

Sandy had finished tending to Gabriel’s wounds and was currently standing shoulder to shoulder with the man. They made a good-looking couple, Sam thought, and she resolutely stomped on the desire to march over there and wedge them apart.

Instead, she leaned against the trunk of the car, crossed her legs to take the weight off her injured calf and waited. Gabriel finally walked over about ten minutes later, but not before giving Sandy a nice little kiss on the forehead.

God, anyone would think the man meant more to her than just an attraction that was never going to lead anywhere.

“Just got a report from the home—Roy Benson didn’t make it,” he said, stopping several feet away and regarding her somewhat warily.

“No surprise, given he’d had half his face and chest sucked off.”

“Yes.” He hesitated, then added, “Ready to go?”

She waved a hand. “After you.”

He didn’t move. “Sandy’s just a friend.”

“Look, it’s really none of my business, is it? Let’s just go.”

He regarded her for a moment, then nodded. “We’re taking Sandy’s car. Mine’s probably too bent to drive.”

Just like its driver. The retort tingled on the tip of her tongue, itching for release. But if she annoyed him too much, he was likely to give her some inane task and send her hiking back to headquarters. She climbed into the front seat and slammed the door instead. Slamming doors was undoubtedly childish, but right then she was feeling particularly childish.

He started the car and headed back to Kensington. A third gray Ford sat outside Roy Benson’s retirement home—obviously, Gabriel had called in a cleanup team to tend to the second kite attack. She wondered why. Surely it was a task he would normally have forced her to handle, especially given that it might be connected to Lyle’s murder.

He drove on. Mark Allars lived a block away from the retirement home in a single-fronted Victorian-style house that was probably worth a fortune, despite its run-down appearance. She studied the building as she climbed out of the car. The small front yard was filled with gate-high weeds, and the window to the right of the door was boarded up with wood. It looked abandoned—until you looked up and saw the state-of-the-art satellite dishes sitting on the roof.

The gate creaked when Gabriel opened it. Sam limped through and knocked on the door.

“Who the hell is it?” a rough voice demanded.

She raised her eyebrows and glanced at Gabriel.

“He’s your average, cranky recluse,” he said, then raised his voice slightly. “It’s Gabriel Stern. Charles’s son.”