Operation Power Play Page 22

  “Who. Mead. Franklin. Ogilvie. His muscle, the guy I sent the photo of. The guy following us today. All of them and anybody else whose name keeps cropping up.”

  Rafe nodded. He leaned forward, tapped some keys on the laptop keyboard. It took a bit longer this time, but after a couple of minutes Ty was back on screen, a large cup of something in his hand.

  “Sorry—I was refilling the caffeine.”

  “I still think you need an IV,” Rafe said wryly.

  “A direct drip? Great idea, but I hate needles. Some help would be cool, though. We’ve got a lot on the platter right now. Southeast has that eminent-domain thing going on, and we’ve got that gun case here, and Charlie’s mulling an outside-the-country case.”

  “I’ve got an idea about that help,” Rafe said. “But right now I’m afraid I need to dump some more on you.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Remember how you always say you could find anything and everything if we turned you loose?”

  Ty straightened up, looking a bit like Cutter when he homed in on something. “Yeah?”

  “Consider yourself off leash,” Rafe said, and gave him the list.

  “Hot damn,” Ty said, his grin so wide it nearly filled the screen.

  “Periodic reports, please. And the usual caveats,” Rafe warned. “The less trail, the better.”

  “How about no trail at all?” Ty said, still grinning. “I am so on it.”

  The screen went dark. For a long moment they all sat in silence, Brett feeling as if he’d launched a long-range missile. Restless, thinking he might have truly started something that could end his career, Brett stood up. He looked at Cutter, who had been lounging rather indifferently as the humans charted their course. Brett supposed they must still be on track in the dog’s mind, or he’d make it known. And the thought barely seemed absurd to him anymore.

  “How about we go outside,” he said to the animal, “and I’ll throw that ball for you for a while?”

  Cutter was on his feet in an instant. He raced to the back door, grabbed a tennis ball that was still almost yellow out of the basket that sat just inside and waited for Brett to catch up.

  “I’d say I’ll give you a shout when Ty comes back, but I’m sure he’ll tell you,” Rafe said drily.

  “Two weeks ago I would have laughed at that,” Brett said just as drily.

  He’d found watching the agile dog chase down the balls he threw was more enjoyable than he ever would have thought. He varied the power, the trajectory and the direction, but Cutter never missed a beat. It wasn’t enough to take his mind off Sloan, however. He wondered what she was doing, if she and Rafe were talking. The usually laconic man certainly seemed to open up with her around.

  He made himself focus on the next throw, sending it as far as he could toward the trees. He wondered if the reason he enjoyed this so much was in part that this was such a normal doglike thing, playing fetch. Watching Cutter just being a dog kind of made those moments when he did things that were practically uncanny recede a bit.

  After a while he shifted to his left arm, something he’d started doing of late just to keep things even. He’d always been reasonably strong, but he hadn’t thrown a ball this much since high school baseball. They’d told him then he had a decent chance to go pro, but he’d only ever wanted to be a cop. Much to his father’s dismay, although eventually the old man had come around, and now, in their retirement in Palm Springs, his parents seemed almost proud of him.

  He wasn’t sure how long they’d been at it when Sloan stepped out the back door. Cutter, who’d been on his way from the longest throw Brett had managed so far, changed course and raced over to her. He dropped the ball at her feet, then crouched down in front, tail up and wagging, in the universal canine “Wanna play?” signal.

  Sloan laughed at him. It was a great sound. She deserved to laugh, and often. And getting involved with a guy with his job wasn’t likely to make that happen.

  They’ll think I’ve fallen in love or something.

  You’re too smart for that.

  Too late.

  The exchange had been haunting him since it had happened. Had she meant simply that it was too late for her to ever fall in love again, after Jason? It had to be, because the only other meaning was one he couldn’t believe. Just because he’d been fool enough to lose control of things and find himself neck deep in a place he’d never intended to go ever again didn’t mean that she’d done the same.

  And deep in his gut he was afraid to wish that she had. Because if a woman like Sloan ever did fall in love, it would come with everything. She wouldn’t do it halfway—it just wasn’t in her nature. No, if she fell in love, she would do it completely, no holds barred. And he might not be able to live up to that. Not anymore. Because giving her everything made him vulnerable, gave people, gave life itself, the biggest weapon of all to use against him. Hadn’t he learned that lesson the hard way?

  He watched her pick up the ball and start walking toward him, Cutter dancing around her feet. Need and want sucked the air out of his lungs. Not just for her body, although that had been the most incredible experience of his life, but for her herself, for the Sloan who had such nobility, such courage, the Sloan who had fought so hard, had stood fast in the face of huge obstacles, implacably closed minds and ugly threats.

  It would be an honor to be loved by such a woman.

  And the last woman who had loved him had died for it.

  Angie had never felt so close as she did at this moment. Hovering, like some specter sent to remind him of the folly of following this path.

  But Angie had never been like that. She had been ever the optimist, ever hopeful and always encouraging others to take a chance, to grab at happiness wherever they found it.

  Would she encourage him now? People who had known her had often told him so, that she would want him to move on, to be happy again. His response had always been he wasn’t ready, until they had finally stopped saying it.

  He still wasn’t ready. Was he?

  “Is your arm tired yet?” Sloan asked as she reached him.

  He shook off the odd mood. Or tried to. “Not yet. I must be getting used to it.”

  “He certainly enjoys it.”

  “Yes.”

  Brilliant, Dunbar.

  “My dad used to tease our dog. Pretend to throw it and then hide it behind his back.”

  Brett glanced at Cutter, who was watching them intently. “I’m not sure he’d fall for it.”

  She laughed. And again it washed over him, soothing, as if nothing bad could possibly matter in a world where a sound like that was possible.

  And you’re losing your mind.

  “Besides,” he said, feeling he had to get back on track, “it would feel like disloyalty somehow. Like he would know I was cheating and never quite trust me again.”

  He’s a dog, idiot. You’re standing here talking about—

  A smile curving her lips, full of sweetness, not amusement, stopped his thoughts midstream.

  “I find the fact that a dog’s trust matters so much to you incredibly wonderful, Brett Dunbar,” she said, her voice so soft and husky he nearly grabbed her right then and there.

  “God, Sloan,” he choked out. He wanted nothing more than to take her home and sink into her soft warmth, where nothing else mattered and everything seemed possible.

  Instead he took the ball and threw it again. A little wildly. It went off to one side, into some thick brush. Cutter gave him a sideways look, and Brett had the strangest feeling the dog sensed his inner turmoil, and more, understood. But then the dog trotted amiably off toward where the ball had disappeared and the sensation was gone. And seemed beyond silly in retrospect.

  When he looked at Sloan, all the craziness came flooding back. “I—”

 
; He stopped, hovering on the edge of saying something he couldn’t take back. She just looked at him, not prompting, not prodding, just waited, and he thought again how much he appreciated that about her.

  There was a rustling as Cutter emerged from the brush, the ball successfully rescued. But the moment he cleared the tangle, his head came up sharply, and the ball dropped, apparently no longer important. He ran to the back door of the building. Looked back at them.

  Brett sighed in resigned acceptance. “Why do I feel like I’m the one being trained by the dog?”

  “Because it’s true?” Sloan suggested. But her tone echoed with that wonderful laughter, and he couldn’t help smiling at her as they followed Cutter inside.

  “Ty’s got a first report,” Rafe said, gesturing to where the one-time hacker was already on the monitor.

  Brett heard the steady hum and clicks of a printer, obviously processing several pages.

  “Fast,” he said as he sat down.

  “Just the beginning,” Ty said, sounding as excited as he had—Brett glanced at the time stamp in the corner of the screen—nearly three hours ago.

  With an effort, he pushed all else out of his mind and concentrated on the stream of data. There was an answer to all this somewhere, and he was determined to find it.

  Chapter 32

  “Aren’t you going to have to go back to work sometime?” Sloan asked as they got back into his car. Cutter settled easily into the backseat, seeming content after the long fetch session. Brett didn’t answer until they were out on the road again.

  “Technically, I have enough leave time coming to take about six months off.”

  She blinked. “Maybe you should take a vacation now and then.”

  “Never wanted to. Before.”

  The last word hung in the air between them. She tried not to read too much into it, but...what if he did mean it in the way her mind had leaped to?

  “How about now?” The words were out before she could stop them, and wishing she could call them back was pointless. All she could do was not look at him. But still she felt his sideways glance.

  “Depends who’s asking.”

  She wished she had the nerve to ask, “And if it was me?” She swallowed, wondering where the woman who had once faced down men who strode the highest halls of power had gone. This couldn’t be any harder, could it?

  Yes, apparently it could, because the words wouldn’t come. Why? What was the difference?

  The answer came to her, as it sometimes did, in Jason’s clear, steady voice. That was facing the past, Sloan. And nothing you did could change what was. But this, this is your future. Grab it.

  But you—

  Are dead. Never coming back, girl. You know that.

  She waited for the inevitable sadness to well up, to swamp every other feeling, to make the next few minutes a battle not to tear up. It didn’t come. It was there—she could feel it, low and deep inside—but the rising tide that overtook her so often at any thought of Jason didn’t come.

  She knew it was crazy, knew she was merely having this conversation with herself, but in truth she had known Jason so well she was probably projecting what he would actually have said if he’d been here.

  And what would he have said about Brett Dunbar? This time the voice was so clear, so...Jason it made her breath catch.

  He’s a good man. An honorable man. I’d trust him, to do what I can’t anymore. Be there for you.

  The question is, does he want to be?

  Give him a chance. He’s in the same place you are.

  Her breath caught again. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? She should have realized when he’d told her about his wife. Just because it had been longer ago didn’t mean he didn’t still feel the way she did. Sad, aching, alone, conflicted.

  “Guess that answers that,” Brett muttered.

  She snapped back to reality. Was startled to see they were halfway back to his place. “Sorry. I was thinking.”

  She drew in a deep breath. I love you, Jason. I will always love you.

  She saw his grin, his encouraging nod, as clearly as if he were here. And oddly, she heard a soft whuff from Cutter that sounded almost like encouragement.

  “About vacations,” she said.

  She saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel. Plunged on.

  “And what you would say if it was me asking. After this is all over, I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  She blinked.

  “I would say yes,” he clarified.

  She let out the breath that had backed up in her throat. “Then consider it asked.”

  She saw his hands ease their grip. “Consider it answered.”

  She felt as if she’d scaled Hurricane Ridge and now had the expanse of miles spread out before her. Miles of possibilities, possibilities she’d thought lost to her. All because a dog had taken an unexpected turn.

  She glanced back at the dog in question, saw that he was looking at her. Something gleamed for a moment in the amber-flecked dark eyes, something bright and alive and uncannily intelligent. And in that moment it all seemed perfectly logical, even reasonable. There had been nothing wrong about that turn.

  Thank you, she thought. And that gleam brightened, fire bright, and she had the oddest feeling he’d understood. She reached back and scratched at that spot behind his right ear. He sighed happily. And suddenly he was just a dog again, leaning into her hand, urging her not to stop the delightful touch.

  Eventually, when the dog seemed content, she turned back to the front. And saw they were in a left-turn lane, not the lane that would take them back to his place.

  “Where?” she asked as he slowed to a stop at the signal.

  “Your aunt and uncle’s.”

  Instinctive concern kicked through her. Did he think something was wrong? “Why?”

  “Three reasons. I want to meet the guy Foxworth called in.”

  He didn’t say he wanted to check the man out, but she heard it in his tone. And the simple fact that he wanted to be sure the man was up to the tasks of both helping and protecting her family made her feel a warmth and safety she’d thought she’d never feel again. She hadn’t realized how weary she was of carrying it all alone until this man had stepped in and shouldered part of the burden.

  “Thank you.” She went on without explaining. “Number two?”

  “I want to walk the property. I have too many ideas and no proof of any of them. But it begins and ends there, so I want to look at every inch of it.”

  “All right. And three?”

  He looked at her then, steadily. “I think it’s time I met your folks again. On a different footing.”

  She couldn’t even begin to put in words how that statement made her feel. An honorable man. Whether it had been her own thoughts manifested in Jason’s voice or Jason himself somehow reaching out to her, it was the truth. Brett Dunbar was an honorable man. While that might not matter to many in today’s culture, it mattered to her. A lot.

  And when they arrived and she saw Tim Deford, the former medic who had responded to Rafe’s call, she knew she was looking at another one. She seemed to be finding a lot more of them since Brett Dunbar and Foxworth had come into her life.

  The stocky, muscular man was three or four inches taller than she herself and had brown eyes that were warm and gentle. He was standing by as Uncle Chuck got into his recliner, watching carefully, letting the older man do it but clearly ready to move quickly if necessary. When he was settled, the man turned, spotted Sloan and drew himself up straight.

  “It’s an honor, Mrs. Burke.”

  He didn’t salute as Rafe had, but his voice sounded exactly the same. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but she could see no outward sign of whatever injury had sent him
home. She had seen a slight tenting of his shirt at the small of his back and guessed that covered the weapon Rafe had promised.

  “The honor is mine, Mr. Deford,” she said. “Thank you for your service.”

  She was surprised to see the young man color slightly before he turned to Brett. “You must be Detective Dunbar. Rafe called, said you’d probably be coming.”

  Brett lifted a brow. “Did he?”

  “He said you’d want to check me out.” He didn’t sound in the least perturbed. “Make sure I’m up to the job here. All of it,” he added, holding Brett’s gaze levelly. She realized he meant the defend part of his mission here. And despite the gentle eyes, she had the feeling he would be more than capable if necessary.

  “Rafe is wise.”

  “He is that. He and I met in rehab.” He reached down and rapped his knuckles on what was clearly not a natural leg. “He kept his. I didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sloan said.

  Deford shrugged. “Old news. Rafe and I still argue over who’s better off.”

  Sloan smiled. “So you called Foxworth when you needed help?”

  He shook his head. “I called Rafe because he helped me get my head on straight after this,” he said, gesturing at his leg. “I didn’t even know about Foxworth. But,” he added, looking at Sloan, “I would have done this anyway, even if they hadn’t helped me. I welcome the chance to pay you back a little for what you did.”

  She didn’t know what to say. She honestly thought she’d done only what anyone would do. It was everyone else who kept acting as if it was some extraordinary thing.

  “Don’t minimize it,” Brett said to her. “He’s right.”

  “Taking a real personal interest here, aren’t you, Detective?”

  It was the first time her uncle had spoken since he’d settled into his chair. Aunt Connie was off running an errand, so obviously she already felt comfortable leaving things in Tim Deford’s care. Sloan could see why.

  “Yes, sir,” Brett said, turning to face her uncle. “Real personal, and real interest.” She felt that bit of heat in her cheeks yet again. Wondered if she’d ever get over it. “That all right with you, sir?” Brett asked.