Page 64 of Nothing to Fear

“Spill it,” Sanborn said. “I don’t have energy to waste ripping anyone a new one over a transgression.”

“Well then, bless us, father, for we have sinned.” Ares cracked a dark smile. The look was downright menacing. “A private security and risk management firm has been helping us go through the electronic data we’ve been gathering on all the suspects.”

The artery throbbing in Sanborn’s temple nearly burst as his blood pressure spiked through the roof. Were they trying to give him a stroke?

He folded his hands on the table. “You served civilians the personal data of the director of the most covert unit in the country on a silver platter? My personal data?”

Ares’s eyebrows rose. “Well, not your data, sir. You haven’t had any transmissions from your apartment for us to intercept since this mess started.”

Relief feathered through him, ever so lightly. He’d only been home long enough to pick up fresh suits and workout gear. “So instead, you handed civilians the identities of the support personnel for the most covert unit in the country?”

“When you phrase it like that, sir, you make it sound far worse. Eyes and ears on the information have been limited. It was a calculated risk, yes, but our backs are against the wall on this one.”

They had no idea. It wasn’t their backs against the wall but rather their heads on the chopping block, with a whitewash as a possibility.

“It’s the company where Cole works,” Maddox said, referring to her fiancé. “His boss, Donovan Carmichael, said based on your history and our situation, you’d agree he was the best option.”

Donovan was prior Agency, knew the ropes, knew Sanborn, and was the epitome of discretion. “Better than turning to someone in the NSA or CIA.” Unfortunate, but true. “Going to Donovan was a smart move. See if he can get us the 911 call.”

25

Atlantic Ocean

Saturday, July 6, 10:35 a.m. EDT

The cruiser slashed through the choppy blue waves. Gideon had pushed the throttle hard all night, foregoing sleep. Thanks to the impressive pickup of the twin engines—he estimated three hundred horsepower—they topped out at thirty knots.

They were far enough out in the ocean not to see land. A cool, salty breeze blew in from the open doors to the rear.

He checked the time.

Willow had stopped moving around in the bedroom shortly after sunrise and was finally resting. Every minute without her dragged. Giddy anticipation wound him up, and he itched to see her, talk to her. At the same damn time, he dreaded being physically near her, wanting her in a way that would only lead to disaster.

The toilet flushed in the bathroom and water ran. He white-knuckled the wheel. Damn, he hadn’t even seen her yet and he was grinning like a fool on the inside.

She sauntered into the kitchen, wearing his T-shirt and her dirty skirt.

“Good morning. How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“Why didn’t you put on one of the dresses I bought?”

“The synthetic material will irritate me, but I’ll put it on when we get to Grand Cayman so I don’t draw attention.”

He’d considered numerous factors, except that one. “I’m sorry I got the wrong thing.”

“You couldn’t have known.” She turned toward him. Her eyes normally sparkled every fleck of brown, green, and gold in the light, but they were dim and swollen as if she’d spent most of the night crying. She looked drained and her face was drawn. “I’m starving. How about I make breakfast?”

“Sounds great, if you don’t mind.” Something in his chest dipped at giving her the cold shoulder last night, when she probably needed a little comfort.

He hadn’t been equipped to handle it with her wrapped in a towel, but he’d make more of an effort today.

She arranged food in an orderly line on the tiny counter, whipped out pans, and got to work, throwing slabs of bacon in a sizzling skillet, cracking eggs, and chopping fruit. A sense of peace settled over him as he watched her.

Strange. Quiet mundanity usually keyed him up, setting him so much on edge, it was impossible to enjoy it. As if he should be prepping in some way—his body with a workout, guarding his mind against a question he needed to evade, cleaning his weapons, steeling his soul for some new horrific task.

But right now, there was only Willow and the smell of bacon.