Blindsided (39 page)

She laughed.
 

“It’s not really all that funny.”

She sobered. “No, it’s not. Whitesman’s an idiot. It’s just I have a hard time picturing you as the scholar.”

“Why?”

She sighed. “I guess because of what I’ve read in your file. At first meet, you come across as being, well—”

“A stupid, boring gym buff?”

She didn’t answer.

“Good. Then I’ve achieved what I wanted.” He swallowed, snapped his glass on the coffee table.

“Now that I know you, I can see it, you reading, enjoying it. You’re not stupid, or boring. Maybe a little macho, but no more than your brother.” She fiddled with Frodo’s fur, found a matted patch, picked it apart.

“I hope it works out between you and Tieg.”

She felt the tears welling up in the corner of her eyes. Would it? Could it? She hadn’t had a chance to think beyond Byron’s capture. It was surreal to think of life without Byron watching and waiting. She’d flown under the radar for so long. Keeping to herself, maintaining the carefully balanced image of beloved heiress and ice princess. She may not have been entirely happy in either of those roles, but she’d been comfortable. Now that her secrets were out, there was no going back. The world knew who and what she was. The question was: Would they accept her?
 
Would the government even allow her to form a new life? And even if she did, would Teigan even
want
anything to do with her beyond a spectacular evening or two rolling in the sheets? Not only was she a Viadal, but she was related to the craziest bastard of them all. Who would want to be associated with that? It certainly wouldn’t gain him points with his boss.

Too many checks against her. Too many complications.

She closed her eyes, damming up the wet drops before they could fall. “I hope so, too.”

Frodo had had enough of her picking at his coat. He leapt off the couch and padded to the sliding glass door, giving a single “woof.”

“I’ll let him out,” Garret said before she could get up, “and then I better find a towel.”

“I’ll get the towel.” Thankful for something to do other than wallow in potential misery, she got up and headed for the bathroom. The bottom shelf had a stack of Frodo towels and she grabbed a couple, figuring he’d be soaked within seconds. She came back into the solarium, and immediately felt the sharp breeze whistling through the cracked door.

“Not back yet?”

“That damn dog of yours is off chasing deer again.”

In the distance she could hear Frodo barking madly, plunging through rain and trees heedlessly. She set the towels on a nearby chair. “Leave him, he’ll come back.”

“All muddy and wet.”
 

The bearings of the door slid against each other. A high pitch yelp, quickly cut off, pierced the air above the deluge of rain. Aria jerked, then immediately tried for the door, but Garret’s arm was there, blocking her.

“No.”

Her fingers dug into his arm. “But he might be hurt! Maybe he found a parameter trap that was missed or maybe—”

“Or maybe the deer got pissed off and kicked him?” he asked.
 

She let go, rubbed her arms. “Maybe.”
What else could it be?

“Yeah, I don’t think so either.” The sound of metal sliding against leather had her shivering. That damn old-fashion revolver of his. “Stay here.”

What else could she do? She’d be a detriment if she went out there with him. Besides, it was probably nothing. Byron was in custody. So therefore, the only logical explanation was Frodo had gotten into something he shouldn’t have…or pissed off the deer enough that it retaliated. Garret was right, she didn’t believe that either.

Inside her body, nerves were singing in screeching discord.
I don’t like this
.

She moved to the armoire, grabbed up a hand com, and moved back to the door as she pressed Teigan’s link in. Nothing. No beeps, no systems are down message. Something was jamming the signal around the house. The storm? But it had never done that before.

She shivered, trying to resist the urge to panic.
Just the storm. And Frodo, poor dumb dog, had come across a porcupine or something. That was all.

The wind shifted, blasting through the door with the rain, carrying a new scent blowing in through the cracked door with it: The whiff of adrenaline radiating off of someone in anticipation. The sharp odor was smothered in mud and pine pitch, but she knew one thing right away: The scent represented death.

“Garret!” she screamed, her hands clutching the handle of the sliding door. She had to warn him, the scent, hidden until now, was strong and could in no way be mistaken for a lingering scent from the past. Byron was close, too close. She started to yank it open further. “Garret!”

A chuckle rose above the wind and rain. Shit! Shit!

With a sob tearing from her throat, for Garret, for Frodo, for herself, she slammed the door, throwing the lock. All of a sudden wishing she’d allowed Willis to do the upgrades he’d wanted to do: perimeter sensors, mechanically locking steel doors…blast shields on the damn windows. Where to go? Where to hide?

She started to back out of the room. Something smashed into the sliding glass door, glass crinkling, but not falling—old fashion safety glass—her mind registered. It wouldn’t hold for long. She veered into the kitchen. She needed a weapon, fast.

A heavy thud, the tinkling sound of glass, more heavy thuds, more glass falling. A click.

Oh God! Her hand slapped and swiped the counter in the general vicinity of the old fashion knife block. She connected, it tipped and thudded on the counter, metal hissing as the contents slid out of the wood.

Within the mix of the howling storm, her mind registered a noise more chilling than anything in nature could ever create. Booted feet, crunching glass. “Aria…don’t you want to play?”

***

Teigan rolled up his window, tucking his ID away as he drove the Airlan past the blockade erected at the edge of Garret’s neighborhood. The excitement earlier that afternoon had drawn attention. Road blocks were set up to minimize exposure as the clean-up crew went through, but that didn’t stop the media from doing their flyovers. Didn’t really matter, summer had held sunset off for a while, but it was getting too dark to make much out and pretty soon the storm system that hit Aria’s cottage would be rolling in and send the small crafts to ground.

He parked in front of the house, not wanting to block the government transport in the drive. He figured the only person left would be Carthridge, and a quick scouting of the house when he got inside confirmed that. The V-10 was in Garret’s office, taking down the computer system.

Teigan folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. “I’m surprised some grunt isn’t doing that.”

Carthridge shrugged. “There’s some sensitive information on here.”

Tying up loose ends. These were the ends. Teigan was surprised at the relaxing of his lungs, as if large bands of iron had been lifted from his chest. Maybe he’d heard too many legends about the V-10 and how they “cleaned up messes.” He’d been subconsciously envisioning Carthridge slipping around snapping the necks of potential witnesses, rigging a series of detonators into the power grid, then clearing the area before blasting any evidence of this encounter into oblivion. Industrial accident, how sad.
 

He dropped his arms, stepping further into the room. “I’m sorry about Morris.”

Carthridge grunted, bent down to insert a wipe drive into Garret’s central com. All evidence erased. At least what they could.

“What happened? Whitesman was slim on the details.”

Carthridge glanced over his shoulder, then back to the screen where the progress of the wipe was being displayed. “He fucking cut him up. Snapped his neck, and then carved him up, right under their noses.”

Teigan swallowed, but allowed no other reaction. “Where were you?”

“Inside the goddamn house, per the lead’s orders. I recommended sitting tight. He vetoed, wanted to try to catch the bastard if he came to scope it out. So I suggested strategically placed snipers with at least a two man team back up in the surrounding area. Morris and I for perimeter patrol. He took the advice on the snipers, but figured he’d get more man hours if he split me and Morris up.”

Teigan swore lividly. “Who was it?”
 

Not Steven. Steven would’ve trusted a fellow team leader to know his men’s abilities and limitations. He wouldn’t have blatantly ignored the V-10’s suggestions—not unless the orders had come down from someone higher up. Someone who wanted the V-10 dead. Whitesman? No, he may not have liked the V-10 much, but he found them useful. As long as they were under his control he was happy.

“Some desk jockey who’d been out of the field for years. Robards?”

“You’re kidding me.” The image of a nervous, chain-smoking, liver-spotted, balding desk jockey came to mind. Robards was in charge of filing, storing and distributing classified information and distributing high-security clearances. He worked on the same level of the building as Whitesman, but in the outer circle. The only man that had higher security clearance was Whitesman himself.
 

So, Whitesman wanted to keep the mission all in the family. Robards was chosen because he was already aware of most of the V-10s’ secrets and no other reason. And the fucker had screwed up.

The muscles along Carthridge’s jaw rolled. Teigan noticed for the first time the smears of blood darkening his fatigues. He didn’t see any visible wounds, a scrap along his cheek, but that was it.

He jerked his chin. “Who’s blood?”

“Morris’s.”

“Who brought Byron down?” Teigan asked. Carthridge glanced over at him. “Bastard’s still alive, I figure it wasn’t you.”

A shadow of pain passed across the V-10’s eyes before he looked away. “Orders were to bring him in whole.”

Ouch. And Carthridge, being the trained soldier he was, followed orders. So he’d brought the bastard in, turned him over, then gone back to collect the body of his fellow soldier.

“You know the really sad part?” Carthridge asked, his eyes unfocused as he stared at the screen. “Morris, Noah, Spanski. They were the ones I could see making it in a normal life. Like Garret, there was something there that made them a little less cut out for this crap. But other than Garret, it looks like they’re never going to get the chance.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cool green eyes turned on him, all emotion wiped clean. Teigan remembered seeing the same look in Garret’s eyes a lot there at the beginning. “Not your fault.”

Teigan heard the underlying message: My fault. As their unnamed leader, Carthridge had taken on the responsibility.

Carthridge stood, wrapping up a sync chord, his expression thoughtful as he studied Teigan. “Seeing how you’re going to be around your brother a lot more than I am, can I trust you to watch Garret’s back?”

“Count on it.” And he would. Whitesman wanted to play hardball, but Teigan was learning where the head director’s weak spots were.

Carthridge’s mouth twisted up at the corner. “Garret’s not going to like that.”

“Doesn’t have to like it.”

“Good. Take care, Agent Evans.” Carthridge slipped the wipe-drive back into his pocket, hefted up the mobile unit under his arm and left.

Teigan walked around the silent house, envisioning how the place would be without the bustle of activity. Quite, empty, impersonal. Standing in the living room staring at the ugly brown couch, he didn’t like thinking of his brother sitting there, alone, but he supposed Garret would, now that Byron was captured.

Thinking of Byron made Teigan frown. The same tingling that ran up his spine earlier hadn’t left. Something wasn’t right. He just couldn’t figure out what.

Why had Whitesman sent Robards?
 
Robards hadn’t seen the field in almost two decades. Teigan had known his suggestion to install Carthridge as base leader wouldn’t be heeded and he’d fully expected Whitesman to put John back in. Yeah, John had been pulled from the mission, but that had been because of personal frictions. When the teams were split up, the logical choice for the second lead should have been John. John knew the men, knew the enemy and what Byron was capable of. So why pick Robards?

Only one person could answer that.
 

Teigan slid his com out of his pocket, linked up to Whitesman. The series of beeps as he waited for a connection went on and on until it finally passed over to his inbox. “Shit.”

“No answer?”
 

Teigan stuffed the com away, but left the link open. He might not be there to answer, but it would record this conversation at least.

“Hello, John,” he said as he turned around, and came face to face with the stunner.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Teigan stared at the phase variance on the front of the stunner, wondering what the readout on John’s end would say: Low, Medium, High, or Lethal.

He should have known. In the back of his mind he realized he had. Believing that Byron learned about and come up with a way to mess with the feeds had never fit right. The only other explanation: Insider. Someone who either was involved in or could access the information on the systems. The thought had drifted across his mind only to be shoved in its back recesses with the accident.