The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

Carl turned the recording back on.

Uncle Carl, it’s coming down to the wire. I believe Matthew when he laughs and says his bomb will be so much bigger, more powerful than anything I’d ever put together with my pathetic Semtex. When, not if, he perfects them, he could sell the formula, and any country could use it against us in unimaginable ways. I must get my hands on his notebooks, I must.

Carl turned off the recorder. “That’s the last I heard from her until the emergency text she sent to me after Bayway. I told her to get out, but it was already too late. And then he tried to kill her.” His voice was flat, steady, but his eyes were hard with pain and hate. He said after a moment, “Do you know, not an hour after Vanessa came out of recovery, she was telling me to announce she was still alive and let her play bait. She knew he’d want to come back and

finish her off, he was that enraged at her betrayal. She could barely talk and she was begging me to let her get it right.”

His cell phone buzzed. When he punched off, he said, “The video feeds from that diner in Baltimore and the photo of Zahir are ready for you.”

Mike took Nicholas’s sleeve. “Dillon, Nicholas and I will be with you in a moment.”

When they’d left, she whispered, “Listen, Nicholas, what Vanessa said, it’s a good idea. Vanessa can’t do it, but I can, I can be bait. I’ll get a red wig, crawl in bed with my Glock, yes, we can do it. Fast, we have to do it fast.”

Nicholas grabbed her arm and jerked her around to face him, pulled her up close.

“You want to be bait? You want to take Vanessa’s place in that bed with a red wig?” He shook her. “Listen to me, I am your partner. Absolutely, one hundred percent, no. We’ll find another way to get him. I forbid it. Do you understand me? I am not putting you at risk. I don’t care if I were lying on top of you, covering every inch of you and—”

He stiffened, his eyes went hot.

Mike felt strangely calm, no urge at all to smack him for what he’d said, for shaking her. His anger came from fear for her. She looked at his eyes, stark, dangerous, and his face was hard, no give. She didn’t say anything, simply raised her hand and touched his cheek, traced the bruise on his jaw.

Nicholas didn’t move as her fingers lightly passed over his face. He closed his eyes when her fingers were smoothing down his hair.

He felt her fingers now resting on his mouth, opened his eyes, met hers. His control, his anger, all his fear for her came together, and he knew it was all over for him.

Mike cupped his cheek, pressed her lips to his cheek. “Nicholas,” she said. Nothing more, and it was enough, it was too much.

Nicholas pulled her tight against him, felt her heart pound against his, and kissed her, all his fear and the deep well of feelings for her, burst out, and his mouth was hard and urgent. When she leaned up and kissed him back, he went wild, but it didn’t matter because she did, too, gripping his arms, his neck, then his face, her fingers touching him, and the kiss deepened and she opened her mouth. He lifted her off her feet and pushed her against the wall, pulling her against him, never once breaking contact. His hands moved down to the small of her back, over her hips, traced around her thighs, pressed her legs open.

His beard scraped her face and Mike could feel every bruise on her body, and who cared? She wanted more, she wanted everything. The taste of him, of Nicholas, the hardness, the power of him, and she tried to press closer, wanting all of him, and she moaned into his mouth.

There was a groan from the bed, six feet away from them.

His mouth, hot and fierce the instant before, stilled. Then he jerked back as if he’d been shot. He looked at her mouth like he wanted to weep, and very slowly, Nicholas eased her back down, his hands on her waist, holding her steady. The feel of her—no, he stepped back, and his eyes were nearly black.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, it was a mistake. I know we have to talk, but—” He shot a look over at Vanessa, quiet now, and he was out the door like a man running from a firing squad.

60

BISHOP TO D5

He was a clod, he’d practically attacked her. It didn’t matter that she was all over him, too, he was embarrassed and he didn’t know what to do.

“Nicholas Drummond!”

He whirled around at her ear-shattering yell to see Mike standing, outside Vanessa’s door, her blouse pulled out from the waist of her pants, her ponytail straggling over one ear, and how had that happened? If he wasn’t mistaken, her eyes were still glazed, and that was nice, but—

Her hands were on her hips, then she actually shook a teacher’s finger at him. She was now standing not two feet from the crowded nurses’ counter, surrounded by techs, doctors, nurses, and there was an orderly standing in the doorway of a room, holding a bedpan. No one was moving, every eye on them. Craig Swanson stood behind her, and the bastard was smirking.

Time stopped.

She took one step toward him, drew up, shook her finger at him again. “How dare you say you’re sorry, that it shouldn’t have happened, that it was a mistake, and then you bolt?” She shook her finger again at him and yelled, “Bad dog!”

The silence was deafening.

No, she hadn’t said that, she couldn’t have. He cleared his throat. “Bad dog? I’m a bad dog?”

“You’re worse than a bad dog, but that’s not the point. Now you’re all sorry you smashed me against the wall? Sorry you had your hands all over me? You regret turning into a wild man? You want to talk? Talk? Well, forget that, Special Agent Drummond, because that will not happen. I will never talk about this, do you hear me? I will pull my own tonsils out through my ears if I’m ever even tempted to talk about this. Do you understand me?”