12. Cali
CALI
His hand is fishing under the seat.
And there's only one thing he could be grabbing.
"Ronan. No!" I grab his wrist to stop him.
He doesn't stop moving right away. His arm is tense under my fingers, all coiled muscle, and for one horrible second, I think he's going to do it anyway.
"You are not," I hiss, "going to shoot a federal agent on the side of the highway. Are you out of your mind?"
He's still resisting, though.
"There are cameras! There are witnesses. My kids need at least one parent who isn't in prison, and Todd's already halfway to a body bag, so that leaves me, which means you keep your hand where I can see it. Understand?"
A long beat.
A moment of terrible indecision.
Then his hand comes out from under the seat. Empty.
He puts it back on the wheel. "You're right," he exhales, though it's clear he doesn't like it.
"I'm always right."
"You're often right."
"Don't push me right now."
Mercer taps the glass again. I take a breath and roll my window down.
She's got sunglasses on, which she pulls off and tucks into the collar of her blazer. Up close, in daylight, she looks exactly like she did on my front steps. Tired around the eyes. Sharp as hell everywhere else.
"Ms. Meadows," she says. "Fancy meeting you here."
"You followed us, huh?" I reply jauntily. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm starting to think you like me."
"I wouldn't get too flattered if I were you. It's kind of my job." She leans down a little, so she can see past me into the car. Her eyes land on Ronan.
And then they flick to my hand.
Which is still on his wrist.
I let go like it's a hot stove. Or a hard dick in a dark hallway. Same reaction, really.
Too late. Mercer's mouth flattens, but if it's a frown, it's the happiest one I've ever seen. She couldn't be more excited to see proof of him and me being—what did she call it?—chummy.
She looks at me, then at Ronan, then back at me. "Should I give you two a minute?"
"No," I say, way too fast.
"Mm."
"There's nothing to give a minute to."
"Sure, sure." She nods. "Whatever you say."
I could die. I could genuinely, actually die right here in this car, and it would be a mercy.
Mercer straightens up and reaches into her blazer. I wonder if it's handcuffs she's about to withdraw, but then she just takes out a folded stack of papers. She holds them across me, past my face, to Ronan.
"Mr. Akov," she says. "Been wanting to do this for a while."
Ronan takes them. He doesn't unfold them or pay them a second of attention. He just holds them and looks at her. Must've left his reading glasses at home, I guess.
"A subpoena," Mercer offers helpfully. "Billing records. Client files. Wire logs. You know the drill. You've seen enough of these from the other side. Well, from both sides, I'm guessing."
"Are you accusing me of something, Agent?" asks Ronan. On the surface, he's calm, polite, even silky. But I know him well enough to sense the menace underneath.
"Wouldn't dream of it, sir."
"Mm. I wouldn't think so."
"You've got fourteen days," Mercer says. "Though I'd expect your very expensive attorneys to file something clever before then. They always do."
"I'd imagine they will. That's why they're compensated the way they are."
"And you, ma'am." She looks at me again. "I'll say it to you plainly, because I think you're the type who appreciates that sort of thing. That window I told you about? It's closing. Fast."
"I remember," I say as neutrally as I can.
"Good. As of now, the offer's still on the table. You come in, you tell us what you know, we'll take care of you." She thrusts her chin toward the car seats in the back. "Your kids never have to know their mother was ever anywhere near a thing like this."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you and Mr. Akov here can pick out matching outfits. I hear prison orange is very in this season."
Oh, this bitch.
Before I can tell her exactly what I think of that particular scare tactic, Ronan beats me to it. He leans across me.
"Agent Gia," he says.
Mercer's eyes snap to him.
The tension ratchets up fast. I don't understand why until I watch her face.
"I don't recall giving you my first name," she says.
"You didn't."
"Then how—"
"I like to know who I'm talking to." His face is placid and emotionless.
"Gia Mercer. Fifteen years with the Bureau.
Started in white collar, transferred to organized crime six years ago.
You had a partner named Santiago Velez who retired to Florida.
You take your coffee black and you drink a bit too much of it, according to your doctor.
You're good at your job. Truly. Better than the people above you, which is why they keep you doing the interesting parts and give the credit to somebody else. "
I stare at him. Is he crazy? Does he know what he's doing? Is he about to get us locked up after all?
Mercer recoils a bit more than I think she intended to. "Be careful now, Mr. Akov."
He simply smiles. "I find it saves time to be 'plain,' as you put it. You appreciate that, don't you?"
"You don't know me," she snarls.
"I'd say I know enough."
They look at each other. It's like watching two alley cats decide whether to rip each other's faces off.
And I'm sitting right in the middle of it, my elbow six inches from a federal subpoena.
I decide to interrupt before the claws really get bared. "Are we done?" I ask. "Is there anything else that needs doing, or can I go back to my life now?"
"Sure are." Mercer straightens up. She pats the roof of the car twice, returning to her default state of nonchalance. "I've said my piece, so now, I'll leave you two lovebirds to your afternoon. Remember my offer, Ms. Meadows. And you, Mr. Akov… Well, I figure we'll talk very soon."
And then she turns and walks back to the gray sedan, unhurried, one hand in her pocket, like she's got all the time in the world and we don't.
She gets in. The red-and-blue lights in the grille die. She pulls out into traffic and is gone.
We sit there for a second. Neither of us moves.
Then I remember.
"You were going to shoot her," I say.
Ronan puts the subpoena on the dashboard.
"I was going to do something. I hadn't decided what.
" He looks out the windshield. "I didn't know it was her, at first. I saw a gray car pull up close behind us on the highway.
Lights in the grille, no markings? That's not how cops usually do it.
It looked like the kind of car Lev's people use when they want you to think they're something they're not. "
"So you thought it was an ambush," I say.
"I thought there was a chance someone had come to take you. And that I had about three seconds to make sure they didn't."
I don't know what to say to that. My whole body was braced to be furious at him. I had the speech loaded up, the same old riff on who gets to decide what, when, where, how, and why.
But he wasn't reaching for a gun to be a tough guy. He was reaching for a gun because he thought someone was coming for me, and his answer to that, the very first thing his hand did, was put himself between me and it.
It's the wrong response. It's a criminal response. If he'd gone through with it, a lot of people—ourselves included—might've gotten hurt or killed.
So why do I feel so tingly all of the sudden?
I become very aware, all at once, that a minute ago, my hand was wrapped around his wrist. I can still feel it. The heat of him. The hardness. The car is small and he's right there. Last night's fantasy is still simmering in my veins, too.
I glance over at him. It's a mistake.
Because his eyes are already on me. And when I make the further mistake of letting my gaze drop to his lap, just for a second, I get all the proof I need that I'm not the only one in this car thinking things I shouldn't be.
He feels it, too. Whatever this is.
"Drive," I say. "Please."
I wedge myself back against the passenger door, as far from him as the seatbelt lets me get, and fold my arms, focusing all my attention at staring very hard out the window at nothing.
Ronan puts the car in gear.
"That's probably for the best," he growls in a choked voice that's chock-full of things he refuses to say out loud.