Rebecca York: Betrayed

He felt his chest tighten as he tried to sort through his feelings about her. She’d been in the perfect position to help him out. At the very least, that was interesting, although he wasn’t sure there were any sinister implications.

He lived in one of the high-rise apartments that had been built in the first flurry of modernization in Rockville. The red-brick building was showing its age now, which was why he’d gotten a good deal on the sublet.

He parked in the garage and stopped in the lobby to get a bunch of circulars from his mailbox. Then he proceeded to the fifth floor where he unlocked his apartment and stepped inside. He’d rented the furniture—a standard sofa and a couple of chairs, plus a flat-screen TV on a stand in the living room, a small table and chairs in the dining room, and a dresser and king-size bed in the bedroom. All of it sat on oatmeal-colored carpet that had seen better days.

He usually paid no attention to the furnishings. Maybe because he’d almost gotten killed today, he stopped in the living room and looked around, trying to see the place from the point of view of a stranger. It looked like the abode of a man who didn’t give a shit where he lived. Which was an accurate summation of the situation.

His previous apartment had been an entirely different matter—filled with trendy furniture, sheets, towels, and knickknacks carefully chosen by his ex-wife. If he’d wanted to take any of them, he supposed he could have. Instead, he’d let her have all the booty and all the wedding presents because he didn’t need any of it around to remind him of past mistakes.

He cursed under his breath as he flashed back to the day a year and a half ago when he’d told Glenda that he knew she was cheating on him and their marriage was over. He’d been deployed to Afghanistan when the affair with Larry MacMillan started. And she hadn’t even had the sense to break it off when he got back.

She’d claimed that MacMillan didn’t mean anything to her. Shane had said that the cheating meant something to him. He’d walked out the door and never saw her again except for some mandatory appearances at lawyers’ offices.

More than that, he’d changed his life around. He could have volunteered for a war zone. But he wasn’t going to give Glenda the satisfaction of sending him into harm’s way. He’d been up for reenlistment, but he’d mustered out. Then he’d taken some time to figure out his next move.

Annoyed that he was thinking about her now, he stomped into the bedroom, pulled off the running suit he’d worn for the surprise attack, and dropped the jacket and pants into the hamper. He took a quick shower, then put on jeans and a dark T-shirt, and wandered into the kitchen where he opened the freezer and examined his stash of frozen dinners. It wasn’t home cooking, but it was convenient, he thought, as he pulled out a chicken and pasta dish, stripped off the wrapper, and put it into the microwave. While he drank another beer, he booted up the computer in the spare bedroom he used as an office, then brought the food to the desk.

He was tired, but he was too wound up to relax, and he might as well get some work done.

He’d told the other Rockfort agents that he couldn’t help suspecting Elena Reyes. He had no proof that she’d done anything illegal, but with her access to the whole company’s operations, she was in a perfect position to steal information from S&D. Not only that, but she had the skills to cover her tracks.

Or was he digging into her background so relentlessly because he was obsessed with her—and investigating her gave him the perfect excuse to get to know her better, at least in the abstract?

For a moment, he let his mind zing back to the scene in the ladies’ room when he’d held her in his arms. He’d felt protective and at the same time vulnerable. Maybe crashing through that window and getting shot at had affected him more than he wanted to admit.

With a rough sound, he stopped thinking about his reactions after the takedown and went to the file he’d compiled on Elena, skimming back through the notations he’d made. Her father was a political refugee from San Marcos. He’d come here legitimately, but did Dad still have ties to his country of origin? What if he was involved in something illegal and had dragged his daughter into it?

And what about the brother, Alesandro Reyes? Elena had a well-paying job at S&D. Her brother had had the same opportunities in his adopted country, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. He worked for a rental car company where the pay couldn’t be anywhere near what his sister was making. But he did have unexpected luxuries like a top-of-the-line Buick and an apartment in a high-priced building. Did he have other sources of income? Or was he forcing his sister or his parents to subsidize his lifestyle? And if so, how?

Even as Shane made a note to dig further into Alesandro’s background, his thoughts went back to Elena.

Did she have a secret life that she was keeping hidden from everyone at S&D? A relationship she was hiding? And what would be the significance if she was? Could she be seeing someone who was influencing her behavior?

Was she under stress—with signs he could pick up, like moodiness and paranoia? Was she hiding financial transactions or extreme views?

He laughed. Maybe if he’d investigated Joe Duckworth for those tendencies, today’s hostage situation could have been avoided. But Duckworth hadn’t even been on his radar screen. He hadn’t been investigating former employees.

Once again, he went back to Elena because he’d rather investigate her than Joe Duckworth. And it was too late to do anything about that bastard, anyway, besides bury him.

Shane had several pictures of Elena. One must have been from her high school yearbook. And some were snapshots that he’d gotten off the Web, like the one that went with her S&D employee bio.

He studied one of the head shots, admiring the waves in her long, shiny dark hair and the thick lashes that framed her dark eyes. She was a beauty, even though she didn’t do much to enhance her looks.

Not like Glenda, who had always spent a good deal of time at the makeup table.

He clenched his teeth, wondering why he had dragged his ex-wife into the evening again.

In a mansion in the tony acres of Potomac horse country, Jerome Weller picked up the remote and turned off the news.

The hostage situation and shoot-out at S&D had made CNN and Fox. But after hours of breathless reporting, the anchors had run out of anything new to say. The talking heads were just rehashing old details, which was good, from his point of view. Just the same old pictures of the S&D building. Then the news that the guy who’d held the hostages in the HR department was dead—taken down by the chief of security, Shane Gallagher.

Again Weller saw the interview with the hero of the day. Shane Gallagher. He could be a problem. He’d been very effective in the takedown. And he’d also been reckless. Not a good combination for an enemy. And he knew that was what Gallagher was going to be—unless he killed him first.

Jerome reached into the bowl on the table beside the couch, took out a butter mint, and unwrapped the candy. It was a green one, and he popped it into his mouth, sucking as he enjoyed the flavor. He’d liked the candy since he was a kid. Of course, he’d never gotten to eat them at home. His dad had been a health-food nut who’d kept sweets away from his kids. The only time Jerome had gotten sugary treats was when he was playing at a friend’s house.

He’d done a lot of that as a kid. He’d never liked bringing friends home. Not only because Dad was weird. They’d also been the shabby family in the neighborhood, and he’d been ashamed to have the other kids see the way they lived.