“What the hell happened to you?” Noah demanded as he stepped into Trace’s office. Then his lips twisted. “Wait, let me guess, a fight with the little ballerina?”
Trace glared at him. He’d gotten the stitches only because Skye insisted. The cut was high on his forehead, deep and, yeah, he knew it would scar. He didn’t care.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to push away the tension he felt, and said, “On the way home last night, some asshole drove right into the side of my limo.”
That wiped the grin right off Noah’s face. “You’re not kidding.”
When had he ever?
Trace motioned to the empty chair near his desk. “He left the scene, ran away on foot.” But the guy wasn’t escaping. Trace had already pulled some strings, and he’d be getting that video footage from the crash scene any minute. He’d see the man who’d walked—ran—away.
“You think it’s related to Sharpe’s death?” Now Noah’s voice was cautious.
Exhaling slowly, Trace decided to put all of his cards on the table. “I don’t know what the hell to think of Sharpe’s case. I got the autopsy report.” He nodded toward the manila file that sat on the corner of his desk. Getting a copy of that report had been easy enough. Just a matter of pulling more strings. “It wasn’t a robbery. Sharpe was homeless. He had nothing to take.”
Noah grabbed the file. His fingers flipped through the pages. “A knife thrust straight to the heart…and a slice right across his jugular.”
Trace nodded. “There were no signs that Sharpe even had the chance to fight back.” That worried him. “Sharpe was crazy, but he was a fighter. He wouldn’t just stand there and let some SOB kill him.” And, shit, he’d been the one to send Ben away from the penthouse—without weapons. Yet even without his knives, Ben knew a dozen ways to defend against an attack. Provided, of course, that he’d had the chance to use his skills.
Noah glanced up. “He didn’t have the time to fight, that’s what you’re thinking.”
“You could get the drop on someone like that,” Trace pointed out. “You could get close enough to kill without making a sound. By the time the victim realized it, the knife would be in his heart.” Because it was true. Noah might pretend to be the elegant businessman, but that façade was a lie.
It was the same lie that Trace presented to the world.
“And so could you,” Noah retorted, voice hardening. “We had the same training. Same missions.”
Trace tapped his fingers on the desk. “I didn’t kill him.”
Noah shrugged. “Neither did I. So we just need to figure out who the hell did.”
“Sharpe said the past was coming back.” This was the part that Trace needed to reveal. “That Skye was going to be my destruction.”
Now Noah’s face showed his concern. “A woman nearly destroyed us before.”
An innocent face…to hide deadly intentions. “They both died.”
They…
The woman who’d tried to betray his team. And her lover.
“It sure as hell seemed like they did,” Noah agreed as he tossed the folder aside.
“Then why was Sharpe so afraid?”
Noah held his gaze. His lips tightened, then he said, “There’s something I should tell you.”
This wasn’t going to be good. The man’s tone told him that.
“Last night, right after you left, I called Drake.”
Trace tensed.
“If the past is coming back, he needs to know, too,” Noah snapped. “Look, the threat isn’t just to you. If someone is striking at us—”
“Is Drake in the city?”
Noah nodded.
Great. Drake Archer wasn’t exactly a safe fellow to have around.
And Drake and Trace hadn’t ended their partnership on the best of terms. Mostly because Drake had been spiraling, and Trace hadn’t been able to help him.
Drake didn’t want help. He wanted to implode.
A knock sounded at Trace’s door. He glanced over, frowning. “Come in…”
The door opened, and his assistant, Sara, poked her head inside. “The video footage should appear in your Inbox within the next five minutes.”
Good. Grim satisfaction filled him. He might not have a handle on Sharpe’s killer, not yet, but he would be taking down this asshole.
***
“So just how much longer are you going to be playing guard duty?” Skye asked Reese as she slanted a glance at him.
Reese gave her a smile. “Last night’s crash put the boss on edge.”
Right. Like she’d missed the frantic intensity that filled Trace.
But she was tired of being in his cage.
This morning, she’d started to feel as if she were suffocating.
“That was an accident,” she said, shrugging. “Despite what Trace wants, he can’t protect me from everything. The world is too unpredictable for that.”
Reese reached for his coffee. Two PM, and she knew that he was hitting his fourth cup of the day. “You know Trace. Control matters to him.”
It mattered to her, too. And she was done with the cage.