Chapter 8 Burning Slowly #2
"I think Harrison is too smart to build a corruption network without multiple exit strategies. Swiss bank accounts, false identities, probably a private jet fueled and ready for international flight."
The same preparations I made when I started this life fifteen years ago. The same contingencies any intelligent criminal maintains.
"So we work fast."
"We work smart." I pull out a chair beside hers, close enough that our shoulders almost touch when we both lean over the documents. "Starting with pattern analysis."
For the next four hours, we built a case that would make federal prosecutors weep with joy. Mariana's analytical mind combined with my intelligence resources creates a comprehensive picture of corruption that spans multiple states and involves dozens of federal personnel.
She's magnificent when she works. Completely focused, asking sharp questions, making connections I missed. Watching her deconstruct Harrison's network is like watching an artist create a masterpiece.
This is what she was born to do.
"Here," she says, pointing to a series of financial transactions. "These payments correspond to witness disappearances, but they're routed through shell companies."
"Shell companies Harrison established using federal resources and authority."
"Can you trace the ultimate destination of the funds?"
I show her banking records that probably violated six different federal laws to obtain. "Offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. All controlled by Harrison through various intermediaries."
"How much money are we talking about?"
"Approximately four point seven million dollars over five years."
She stares at the number like it's written in blood. Which, in many ways, it is.
"Thirty-seven lives for less than five million dollars."
"Harrison sees them as inventory, not people. Commodities to be sold or eliminated based on market conditions."
The same way some people see criminal organizations. Tools to be used rather than human beings trying to build better lives.
"This makes me sick."
"Good. Anger is useful. Channel it into building a case that can't be challenged."
She works for another two hours, cross-referencing federal databases with my intelligence while I provide technical support and try not to notice how beautiful she is when she's focused.
How her lower lip disappears between her teeth when she's thinking.
How she unconsciously leans closer to me when examining evidence.
This is torture.
Professional torture. Being this close to her, working as partners, watching her brilliant mind dissect corruption with surgical precision—all while pretending I don't want to push those documents aside and show her exactly how much I've been wanting her.
Keep it professional.
But professional becomes impossible when she reaches across me for a document and her breast brushes against my arm. The contact is brief, accidental, but it sends heat shooting through my nervous system like electrical current.
She freezes, suddenly aware of what just happened. When she looks at me, her amber eyes are wide with something that looks dangerously like awareness.
She felt it too.
"Sorry," she says, but her voice is rougher than before.
"Don't be."
The words emerge without permission, carrying implications neither of us should acknowledge. For a moment we just stare at each other, the evidence of federal corruption forgotten in favor of something more immediate and much more dangerous.
Kiss her.
The thought hits with the force of a command, and I realize I'm leaning closer without conscious decision. She's not moving away. If anything, she's tilting her face up toward mine, lips slightly parted.
This is a mistake.
But some mistakes are worth making, and resisting her has become impossible. She's too close, too warm, too willing. The scent of her skin, the way she's looking at me like I'm something worth wanting instead of something to be feared...
My phone buzzes against the table with the harsh sound of an encrypted message.
Reality crashes back like ice water. We're fugitives. We're being hunted. We have work to do that doesn't involve exploring the attraction that's been building between us since the warehouse.
I grab the phone, using the interruption to put necessary distance between us. The message is from my surveillance network: Federal teams mobilizing. Multiple locations. They're expanding the search.
"What is it?" Mariana asks, and I can hear the professional agent reasserting itself over the woman who was about to let me kiss her.
"Harrison's escalating. More federal resources, wider search parameters." I show her the message. "He's getting desperate."
"Good. Desperate people make mistakes."
"Desperate people also take unnecessary risks." I look at her seriously. "He's not going to stop until we're both dead. And he has resources we can't match through conventional channels."
"Then we don't use conventional channels."
The words surprise both of us. Agent Mariana Castillo, who's spent her career following federal protocols and proper procedures, just suggested abandoning the rulebook.
"What does that mean?"
"It means we fight dirty. We use your criminal contacts, your surveillance network, your methods." She meets my dark gaze steadily. "We do whatever it takes to stop him."
Whatever it takes. The phrase hangs between us like a bridge she's chosen to cross. From a federal agent to something more flexible. Something more dangerous.
Something more like me.
"That's not a decision to make lightly."
"Neither is letting him kill more innocent people while we follow protocols he's already subverted."
She's right. And hearing her say it, seeing her choose effectiveness over procedure, makes something fierce and possessive unfurl in my chest.
My little wolf. Growing teeth.
"Alright. We do this my way."
"Our way," she corrects, and the word choice makes heat spiral through me in ways that have nothing to do with professional partnership.
Our way. Like we're building something together. Like this crisis has forged us into a team that extends beyond necessity into something more personal.
"Our way," I agree.
She smiles, and the expression transforms her face from professional competence into something luminous. Something that makes me want to forget every reason this is dangerous and focus only on the woman who's choosing to trust me with her life and her principles.
You're falling for her.
The realization crashes over me with devastating clarity. Somewhere between watching her sleep and working beside her and seeing her choose justice over protocol, I've stopped thinking of her as the agent hunting me and started thinking of her as the woman I want to keep.
The woman I want to claim.
The possessive thought should disturb me. Should remind me that I'm a killer who lives in the shadows, not the kind of man who gets to keep beautiful federal agents. Should make me reconsider choices that could get us both killed.
Instead, it feels like the first honest thing I've thought in years.
Little wolf. You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into.
But as we return to building evidence against Harrison, working together with the seamless coordination of longtime partners, I realize something that should terrify me:
I don't want her to get out of it.
I want her to stay. In my safe house, in my life, in whatever future we can build once this crisis is resolved.
Even if it’s selfish. Even if it destroys us both.
6:45 PM
The argument starts over dinner.
I've ordered food from a restaurant that doesn't ask questions about anonymous deliveries to secure buildings. Italian, because I've watched her eat lunch enough times to know she loves good pasta. She accepts the gesture with surprise and gratitude that makes my chest warm.
Such simple things make her happy.
We eat in comfortable silence, the evidence of Harrison's corruption spread across half the dining table while we work. Professional partnership has become natural, easy. Like we've been doing this for years instead of hours.
Too easy. Too comfortable. Too much like the kind of domestic partnership I gave up any right to when I became Ghost.
But what if you didn't have to give it up?
The thought is dangerous, seductive. What if exposing Harrison clears both our names? What if we could build something real from this crisis? What if the federal agent and the phantom killer could find a way to exist in the same world?
What if you're dreaming?
"We need to discuss tomorrow," I say, breaking the comfortable silence that's been stretching between us.
"What about tomorrow?"
"Harrison knows you're with me. He'll be expecting us to stay hidden, to work from the shadows."
"And we're not going to do that?"
"We're going to do the opposite. We're going to be visible, aggressive. Force him to react instead of letting him control the timeline."
She sets down her fork, giving me her full attention. "What does that mean?"
"It means we contact Agent Rodriguez. Tell him we have evidence of federal corruption that goes to the highest levels of the Bureau."
"Rodriguez will think it's a trap."
"Rodriguez will think you're trying to save yourself by implicating your superior. Which means he'll investigate just enough to determine whether your claims have merit."
"And when he realizes they do?"
"He becomes our inside source. Someone with legitimate federal authority who can access records, conduct interviews, build parallel evidence."
Someone who's in love with you and will move heaven and earth to prove your innocence.
The thought makes something dark and possessive twist in my chest. Rodriguez's feelings for Mariana are obvious to anyone with eyes.
The way he looks at her, the personal concern that goes beyond professional partnership, the careful way he avoids crossing lines while hoping she'll cross them herself.
He wants her.