Page 71 of Duty Compromised
Both men looked grim. Not the kind of grim that came from a firefight—I’d seen them both after those, pumped on adrenaline and victory. This was the careful, controlled expression of soldiers who’d found something very, very bad.
“Charlotte, this is my brother Donovan and Ben Garrison from Citadel.” I moved to stand beside her, close enough that our arms touched. She pressed against me slightly, drawing comfort from the contact. “Guys, Dr. Charlotte Gifford.”
Ben nodded politely, Jolly’s tail wagging in greeting despite his handler’s serious demeanor. Donovan studied her with those sharp eyes that missed nothing, then cut his gaze to me. The slight raise of his eyebrow said he’d noted the protective stance, her wearing my shirt, probably the lingering scent of sex in the air. But he kept his mouth shut. Smart man.
“How bad?” I asked.
“Bad.” Ben’s hand dropped to Jolly’s head, an absent gesture I’d seen him make literally thousands of times. “Place was rigged. Explosives on the gas heating system. Professional job—it would’ve looked like an accident. Faulty heater, winter weather, tragic explosion. No evidence of foul play.”
Charlotte’s sharp intake of breath was the only sound she made, but I felt her tense beside me. I shifted slightly, putting myself partially between her and the door. Old habit.
“The whole safe house was a trap,” Donovan added. “Just waiting for you two to walk in and get comfortable.”
“Jesus.” I ran a hand through my hair, mind racing through implications. “They’ve escalated.”
“Fuck yeah, they have.” Donovan’s expression darkened. “This isn’t about slowing down Charlotte’s work anymore. They’ve moved to a permanent solution.”
“Now they’ve decided the easiest way to stop the countermeasure is to eliminate the person who can create it,” Charlotte said quietly. Her voice was steady, but I could feel the slight tremor running through her.
“It makes sense.” We were lucky it hadn’t been that way from the very beginning.
“If they fail here, the next attempt won’t be subtle,” Ben continued. “No more trying to make it look accidental. They’ll just?—”
“Put a bullet in her and be done with it,” Donovan finished bluntly.
I shot them both a death glare as Charlotte went pale beside me. “All right, Picasso, no need to paint a fucking picture. She gets it.”
“Sorry.” Ben had the grace to look apologetic. “But you need to know what we’re dealing with. This is professional wet work now.”
Donovan’s smile held no humor. “There were two separate surveillance teams at the safe house—which is a relatively isolated cabin. One parked in a van a little off the long driveway, another in a sedan on the north approach. They were watching the roads, not expecting anyone to come through the woods on foot.”
Of course they weren’t. They were watching for vehicles, for us to drive right into their trap like good little targets. But Donovan and Ben had spent years moving through hostile territory in Afghanistan. Approaching on foot, through cover, was second nature to them.
I studied my brother. Donovan was looking grim. Twitchy. He could have eliminated both teams without them ever knowing he was there, had both the skill and the temperament. The fact that he hadn’t meant he’d chosen intelligence over action. Smart play.
“We have to address that a so-called FBI safe house was completely compromised,” Ben added.
There was a big-ass elephant in the room. “George gave me that address.”
“George Mercer?” Donovan’s eyebrows rose. “Your Army buddy? The FBI agent?”
“Yeah.” The word tasted bitter. “But I haven’t actually talked to him since the Vertex incident. I haven’t been able to reach him. The safe house address came via text from his number. But it could have been anyone with access to his phone.”
“Or George himself,” Ben said carefully.
“Maybe.” I didn’t want to believe it, but I couldn’t rule it out. “Either way, the FBI is compromised. We can’t trust anyone there.”
“You can’t stay here either,” Ben said. “When you don’t show up at that safe house, it’s going to be a manhunt.”
“We can’t stay on the run.” I ran a hand through my hair, wincing when it pulled at the butterfly bandage. “Charlotte needs somewhere to work. We only have four more days until the Cascade Protocol goes up for sale on the black market.”
“Rocheport,” Donovan said.
Charlotte looked between us. “What’s Rocheport?”
“Our hometown,” I explained. “Not too far from here. Population barely pushes two thousand on a busy day.”
“Home-court advantage,” Donovan added. “We know every street, every building, every face that belongs and every one that doesn’t. Strangers stick out like neon signs.”
