Evidence of Passion (Shadow Agents 7)

Well, he was a ghost to everyone but her. Rachel knew him for the flesh-and-blood man that he was.

He focused on Rachel. Her hair was pulled back. He didn’t like that. He’d told her time and again to wear her hair down. He preferred it free around her face. She knew he was out there, and she should’ve worn her hair for him.

The scope stayed on her. But then...then Dylan moved. The guy positioned himself right in front of Rachel.

Jack’s back teeth ground together as he leaned in for the shot. It would be so easy. He could fire right then. The bullet would find its target, and Dylan Foxx wouldn’t be a threat any longer.

But Rachel was too close to Dylan.

Jack was a good shot, damn good, but Rachel was so unpredictable. She might lunge at the last moment. She might grab Dylan. Try to shield him.

The bullet

could hit her.

No, it was safer to wait. A better moment would come.

Dylan and Rachel climbed into the back of a black SUV. The new agent hurried around to the front and jumped in the driver’s side.

The vehicle rushed away.

Jack put down his weapon. Next time.

But his gaze tracked to Dylan’s building. Hmmm...just what could he learn inside that place?

He put his weapon back in his car. To the rest of the world, it looked as if he were carrying around a guitar case. A little trick he’d learned from one of his favorite movies a long time ago.

He slipped into the building. He’d scoped out this place a time or two before.

He entered Dylan’s place through the front door. There was a fire escape, but going that way would just attract too much attention. The alarm began to beep, but a few fast strokes and some quick rewiring of the base pad had shut the system off.

Then he turned and stared at Dylan Foxx’s home.

Know your enemy. That was rule number one for him. Whenever he had a new target, Jack made it his mission to learn everything he could about that person.

It was time to learn Dylan Foxx’s secrets.

He walked past the couch and glanced around. No family photographs. No mementos. The guy was a soldier, through and through. No, a shadow.

Are you trying to be a ghost, like me?

Jack had on gloves as he quickly searched through Dylan’s desk. Again, no photos.

The guy’s computer was password protected. Getting past that system shouldn’t be a problem, either, but he’d save it for a bit later.

Jack entered the bedroom.

Pillows and what looked like extra blankets were piled onto the bed. And...

He stepped closer to the bed. It was faint, but he caught Rachel’s scent in the air. She’d been in the bedroom, in the bed, with Dylan Foxx. His breathing came faster as the blood within his veins seemed to boil.

His gaze fell on the wall to the right. Framed, black-and-white photographs filled that wall. The photographs were of D.C. landmarks—the Ford’s Theatre, the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument. He stared at those images, caught by a pang of familiarity.

Those were Rachel’s work. The angles of the images, the use of light, the stark white-and-black contrast—he’d seen her work before.

She’d given the images to Dylan Foxx, and the man had put them up on his bedroom wall.

The attachment is there. Dylan is more than just a teammate.