Page 10 of The FBI Agents Who Stole Me

“Feisty. I like it.”

“You’ll like a broken nose even more.”

His eyes light up.

God, what a weirdo.

“You’re a dick. Make yourself useful and read over this file.”

My glare must say the rest. With that same infuriating grin, he stands, takes the file, and saunters out the door.

At 4:12 p.m., my phone rings, and I’m told the first useful thing anyone has said all day. I’m already reaching for my jacket before the officer finishes the address.

“Armed robbery,” the officer says through the phone. “Possible connection to one of the syndicates we’ve been tracking. It’s on the edge of the city in a steel warehouse we are sure is a front.”

Elliot meets me in the hallway, already pulling on his jacket just as I get the text of the address.

“Finally. Some real fun.”

I narrow my eyes. He knew about the lead before I told him. Interesting as well as annoying. Fuller forced him onto my case, so of course he has access, but who called him before me? I ignore the anger that bubbles up inside my chest at the thought he’s one step ahead of me.

“You stay behind me. Don’t touch anything. Don’t speak unless I say so.”

“Hot.”

“Elliot.”

He mimes zipping his lips.

Then ruins it by winking.

I drive.

When Elliot opens his mouth to sing along with the radio, I cut him a sharp look. To my surprise, he mimes zipping his lips again and tossing the key out the window.

The warehouse is quiet when we arrive.

Rusted and supposedly abandoned, the building rises four stories over the empty lot, all sharp angles and shadows. Every window is boarded shut, the wood weathered and warped. Gravel crunches under our tires as I kill the engine.

My instincts buzz like a live wire. I motion for Elliot to go left. I take the right. We move like we’ve done this before, which is ridiculous because I have and he absolutely has not.

He follows my signal without hesitation, moving so quietly beside me that I almost forget this is his first day at my back. He’s light on his feet. I’ll give him that.

Inside, the warehouse is mostly crates and dust. A shadow cuts across a dirty stream of light slipping between two boards.

“Freeze!” I bark, gun raised.

The shadowy figure turns to run, but Elliot cuts him off. He’s faster than I expected and tackles the guy to the ground before I can blink.

They wrestle. The suspect swings hard, catching Elliot once across the jaw before Elliot drives an elbow into his shoulder and pins him face down.

I could try to help, but I think Elliot deserves a few punches. When he finally gets the upper hand, I bend down and cuff the guy.

“Didn’t know you could move like that,” I say grudgingly.

He grins, chest heaving. “Told you I’m not just a pretty face.”

I roll my eyes. A tiny, traitorous part of me is impressed by how cleanly he took the suspect down. I’m definitely not noticing the way his forearms flex beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, veins standing out against muscle.