Page 90 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

The agent and I enter a stare off with neither of us willing to blink when a loud bang, like a fist hitting metal, is followed by the door slamming open.

“Mr. Sandoval,” a woman in tan slacks and a light blue button-down shirt says, panting. “My apologies that you’ve been detained here. You’re free to go.”

I rear back, looking between the two agents and turning back toward the door when another tall Black man in a plain Brooks Brothers suit comes in. He looks sweaty as he clutches a manila folder, and when he enters the room, he scowls at McAdams.

I look around the group, noting the tense set of the other detectives’ jaws. Except…yup, the woman’s badge identifies her as being high up in the ranks here. Deputy Assistant Director Feeler. Clearly McAdams’ superior, probably by several levels.

The agent who has been interrogating me clears his throat before straightening.

“Director,” he says, directing his attention to the woman. “I had a lead and?—”

“Actually, I don’t give a fuck,” the woman snaps. “I told you to—never mind. Mr. Sandoval.” She spins toward me, revealinga tense grin. “Please accept the bureau’s sincerest apologies. Your associate, Mr. Huntley, is here to bring you home.”

What…the fuck?

McAdams turns so red he almost looks purple.

“Feeler,” McAdams says, “you know this is?—”

“McAdams,” Deputy Assistant Director Feeler presses.

The room falls into a tense silence, and I don’t move.

The moment breaks when Agent McAdams steps back from the table and places his hands on his hips, staring at the papers before him as if they hold the answers to the world’s problems.

“Mr. Sandoval.” The Black man holds out a hand toward the open door. “I’ll escort you to your vehicle.”

I catch his gaze, taking in the moisture beading on his forehead, the way the muscle in his lower jaw ticks, and the smudged mustard stain on his plain white shirt beneath his jacket.

He doesn’t look put together or in charge—he looks like a regular paper pusher who got thrown into some bullshit, but when I glance at his badge, it makes even less sense. I’m not an expert on the FBI’s position tiers, but I know Deputy Director is a few levels removed from the president.

What the hell is going on here?

I turn my back to McAdams and head for the door.

“This isn’t over, Sandoval,” the man grinds out.

And when it comes to that, I completely believe him.

Riale’s facegives nothing away when I exit the FBI headquarters and stroll toward his blacked-out SUV. But because I know him, I decipher the message in his eyes.

Don’t say a goddamn thing until I tell you to.

When he brings me back to my apartment, motioning for me to be silent, I feel a little like a pressure cooker about to blow my top as I wait for him to mess with the strange device in his hand.

“Jammer’s on,” he says, his voice strained. I can feel his agitation rolling off him in waves.

That’s all the signal I need to lose my shit.

“Fuck!”

The kitchen stool at the bar gets the brunt of my wrath as I fling it into the opposite wall.

I slap my hands on the cool countertop.

“Feel better?” Riale drawls.

I don’t look at him, nor do I respond.

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