Luke's Touch (Walker Security - Lucifer's Trilogy 2)

“I’m moving to the next building, away from the door. If anyone shows up, I don’t want them asking me questions.”

She nods, and this time when she moves, I let her go, but I don’t feel good about it. Not even a little. I watch her punch a code into a keypad and enter the building. Once the door is shut behind her, I shift into gear and drive to the next building. It’s close, one of those clustered complexes which doesn’t seem smart for the FBI, but that’s their business. I park with a direct view of the door Ana entered and should exit soon.

Ironically timed, the sun splays a golden glow of fingers toward the rooftops, but all I see is the blood splattered all over Ana. It wasn’t hers and I’m going to keep it that way. Another car pulls up and I watch a guy named Steve Murphy get out and walk to the door. Steve’s a seasoned FBI agent who isn’t acting like one right now. He never looks around, never offers even a cursory glance toward the parking lot. He ignores his surroundings, rushes to the door of the building, and disappears inside.

There’s a knock on my window and I glance up to find Adam standing there. I unlock the door and he climbs inside, hauling two Starbucks cups along for the ride.

I arch a brow. “Starbucks?”

“This is your excuse to go check on her if she takes too long. The boyfriend is bringing her coffee.”

My teeth grind.

Boyfriend.

Fuck me, I need to marry her already.

“Not a bad idea,” I approve, accepting the cup.

“It’s a vanilla latte,” he says. “Sorry, man. I have no clue what espresso beverage you prefer.”

“A hot one that can burn the fuck out of anyone who touches Ana,” I reply, “or better yet, I’ll just shoot somebody.”

Another car pulls up, and a guy I don’t know pretty much repeats Murphy’s sins, ignores his surroundings, and enters the building. “I guess when they say Sunday is the day of rest, these FBI agents took it to heart. Any idea why they’re here?”

“Blake says there’s no report of Darius’s body being found at all, but his house was shot up, the FBI thinks he was attacked and assumed hiding out. But now he’s cut off communications. They’re likely looking for him.”

“Let’s hope that’s all it is.”

“Another piece of news: Trevor’s dead, man. I didn’t ask details, I didn’t have time, but Blake said he’s calling it a solid conclusion.”

There was a time when I wouldn’t trust anyone’s solid conclusions. Then I joined Walker Security, and I was delivered a new perspective. Trevor is dead. So, if he didn’t take that package, who did?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ana

The elevator creaks like an old lady’s bones, moaning and groaning as if the FBI can’t afford a decent building. I’ve always felt like a secondhand citizen here, shoved down the elevator shaft, just below the floor where promotions thrive. From the day I walked into the building, I was Kurt’s stepdaughter to my boss and everyone here. You’d think that would indicate I have skills and I know how to use them. Instead, it had stirred a competitive urge in those around me, including my boss.

“You get no special treatment because your stepfather trained half of our men,” Mike had said to me, and done so in the first five minutes I’d been in the building. Over time, I’d earned everyone’s respect, though the relationship I share with Mike retained a pretentious quality at best.

The elevator dings and the doors open. Olivia’s warning is once again in my head.

My heart does this thrumming thing in my chest, which I’ve come to know as nerves when I’m in denial of those nerves. Nothing is as it seems is a broad warning, and one that I must apply to my workplace considering the closest person to a partner I’ve ever had is now dead, and proven to be dirty.

Mike does as Mike does, which translates to him being difficult, but could he be dirty, too? I just don’t know.

I step onto the second floor of the building to the glow of lights already illuminating the offices. Mike is here somewhere. If I’m fast and cautious, the plan is to get in and get out before he even knows I’m here. I cut right and walk down a short hallway before turning left. My office sits directly across from Darius’s office and I step into his doorway and freeze as I find Mike on a scavenger hunt inside Darius’s desk.

He grumbles incoherently, straightens, scrubs a hand through his salt and pepper beard, and then turns to face me. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, his fifty-something body still fit and athletic, while his decision-making skills equate to a wet noodle mentality. To his credit though, he’s cool as a cucumber, a man who rarely registers much of a reaction, unless he believes no one is watching, of course.