Chapter 15
CHARLIE
“Let’s go over what happened one more time,” Uncle Ollie asks Declan. It all happened so fast – not even ten seconds. It feels like an eternity has passed since Declan scooped me up and carried me back inside. I only lost consciousness for a second or two, but my body was still in shock.
Next thing I know, Ian, Declan, Uncle Ollie, and I are all in his office. Someone got me an ice pack for my hip. I suspect a bruise the size of Declan’s forearms is forming right now. My mind is turning over details that can’t be right.
We were shot at.
Almost run over.
I swear Ahmed, Trey, and some of the other operations guys passed us on the way back in with toolboxes. Declan is explaining everything with a practiced calm. Like this is par for the course.
“I didn’t get the tags; we may need to hack into building security to get the parking garage feeds,” Declan states.
“Probably stolen plates, but worth a shot,” Ian responds.
I’m sitting in the middle of this, wondering how I found myself here.
Wondering what the adrenaline and cortisol in my veins right now will do to my muscles.
I used to thrive on those two chemicals.
Once I was diagnosed with a rare autoimmune condition, I knew I had to cut both out of my life as much as possible.
I had my spot on the US team for the World Games and everything, and then bam.
My muscles stopped working. Or, more specifically, the fascia.
The layer between my skin and muscles became inflamed and angry.
I can picture it fighting me again right now.
Because this situation is stressful. I figured this job would have run-of-the-mill office stress or meeting-deadlines kind of stress. Not mortal danger levels of it.
Mentally, I’m back in a doctor’s office, one of a dozen.
The final doctor who was actually able to give me a diagnosis.
Eosinophilic fasciitis. After a year of medicines that wrecked my skin and my liver, I had a choice.
Continue the medicine whose side effects were worse than the symptoms they were treating.
Or never run again, at least not competitively.
“Charlie!” Uncle Ollie’s voice breaks through my thought spiral. My uncle’s face is close to mine, his eyes probing, full of concern. He turns to Ian and Declan and offers his assessment. “She’s still in shock.”
“You can say that again,” I mutter.
“Got her sense of humor,” Ian responds with a nervous chuckle.
I want to snap and tell them to stop talking about me like I’m not there. To stop acting like this is just another day of business. Why aren’t they more panicked? Why aren’t they fawning over Declan who was also shot at? Why aren’t the police here yet?
“Charlie?” Declan addresses me.
I gaze up into his eyes and he looks scared. Why is he scared?
“What happened?” I ask.
“She doesn’t remember.” Declan looks over to Uncle Ollie, fear written clear across his face.
I shake my head. “No, I know we were shot at. I was there,” I snap at him. “What caused this? Why did this happen?” I clarify my question.
Declan and Ian remain silent, their mouths sealed, their eyes fixed on Oliver.
I turn to the man I’ve known my whole life.
“Uncle Ollie?” I say, wanting someone to just tell me already.
I can see he’s holding something back. His eyes track from me to Ian, to Declan.
A silent conversation, an internal debate, warring in his mind.
He hangs his head and fixes his hands to his hips before letting out a sigh.
“Everyone, take a seat,” he instructs Declan and Ian.
I know that look. Whatever it is, he just decided something.
“Charlie, what I’m about to tell you is privileged under the company NDA you signed on your first day here.
” I get that funny feeling. The one where my stomach is hollow and the tiny hairs on my skin all stick up at once.
Like when my parents explained my childhood dog had to be put down.
Or when the first doctor told me, “I’m sorry.
I can’t help. I have to refer you to someone else. ”
I give a nod and brace myself for what is about to be revealed. My hand squeezes the ice pack, a stress response, and cold condensation spreads across my shirt. I wiggle, the wetness only reminding me this is very, very real.
“As a spectator, you’ve experienced the front-facing operations of FIRE for years, and as a team member this past weekend.
Over the past few weeks, you’ve seen how the back office runs, with marketing, accounting.
I’m impressed by how quickly you’ve been learning the ropes about the business side, but it isn’t the full story. ”
Declan clears his throat and I peer over at him. He is rubbing his brow. Was Declan hurt too?
Uncle Ollie’s next words call my attention back to him.
“About a decade ago, we recognized the name of a notorious crime boss on our registration list. Sound familiar?” I think back to the conversation I had with him about a sleazy senator but not a mafioso.
“We knew he could be a liability, so one of the team –” Oliver nods to Ian – “got on course and trailed him. He looked like any other athlete.”
Ian takes over the story. “I saw him veer off course and photographed him making a deal. Literally exchanging funds and handing it off to one of his associates.” Ian appears lost in memory, as if he were watching this crime unfold before his eyes again.
Oliver tells me the rest. “Then he finished the race. We handed over the evidence and he was convicted. When the mayor of Palma saw the headline and asked us to keep an eye on the comptroller who was planning to do our triathlon in Mallorca, I knew we could do this again. We could help. We go into these communities, bring tourist dollars, and do charity projects on race weekend. But these missions, for lack of a better word, could bring actual change.”
I take this all in. This sounds outlandish. But it fits with all I’ve seen and heard so far. Everything that just happened in the parking lot. “So you’re telling me that you’re all spies?”
Declan finally chimes in. “Not everyone.”
I look him in the eye, trying to see if he is mocking me or simply relaying information.
“A few critical team members work on both sides of the business. Strategic operations,” Oliver says, gesturing to Declan, “is our corporate-sounding name for this division.”
I take a deep breath. I can’t decide what to ask first.
Oliver keeps talking. “I know we discussed a very different job. That your role would be an entry point into the business side of sports. Give you experience so you could work your way up the corporate ladder here or elsewhere. But, Charlie, you’re too smart.”
I start to shake my head.
“Yes, you are,” Oliver pushes on. “You’ve caught on to so many details already.
Identified Titus Kilbride as a potential mark.
Noticed the budget discrepancies – yes, Declan filled me in.
You’d be great at this. Working in secret intelligence is something you could excel at.
It’s a lot of listening, taking in all the information, recognizing habits and routine so you can spot when the pattern breaks.
You’re already doing that. You’re already an asset to the team in your current role.
You’re sharp, you’re ambitious, and you know right from wrong.
You could join us on this side of the business too. ”
I stand up because I need to walk, to get some space, to get out of this room and the information within it.
I drop the ice pack and wince at the sudden motion of my hip.
So when Uncle Ollie said he thought someone was sharing company information, he was really saying there could be a double agent.
I connect our earlier conversation with this new information.
“I need to get home; I need to think.” I rush out and grab my purse.
“Charlie.” Declan stands behind me in the empty hallway. “I’ll get you a ride share.” He is already tapping on his phone.
“My car wasn’t damaged; I’m not leaving it here all weekend.” I’m firm, but I can hear in my voice that I’m too exhausted to fight.
“Fair point,” Declan says, putting his phone away.
I think I’m about to be rid of him when he says what I least expected.
“I’ll drive you home.” His voice is steady, even.
The sound of it calms me down; it’s amazing what a difference there is when he isn’t snarky with me, even if I still don’t like what he is saying.
I brush off his offer. “I’ll be fine.”
“No offense, but you are not fine. You’re in shock and you passed out. It would be irresponsible for you to operate a vehicle.” There is a finality to his voice.
I don’t really have a choice. I roll my eyes and start walking to the elevators. Again.
“You know the last time we were here, we got shot. So maybe I’m safer getting home on my own,” I tell him, trying to lighten the mood. To alleviate the weight of this knowledge.
Declan laughs as we exit the elevator, actually laughs. He runs a hand through his hair and I see a dark purple bruise splayed across his wrist and forearm.
“Declan, you need to get that checked out!” I say, my voice too high, as I grab for his arm instinctively. As if I could provide any kind of first aid.
Declan shrugs off my concern. “Eh, I’ve had worse.
” His skin is warm beneath my fingers and I realize that I’m touching Declan Davidson!
That reminder alone should have me dropping his hand like it’s hot, but I don’t.
I glance over the ghastly bruise and wonder how much he is trying to look brave and tough.
Is he impervious to pain? Or is it all for show?
I release his hand and he flexes it, moving it this way and that. The taut muscles and tendons of his hand and forearm are on display.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be driving either,” I point out to him.
His thick eyebrows knit together, as if he is considering that my words might have merit. I decide to not roll my eyes at him and continue toward the parking garage.
We remain silent for the rest of the walk to my car. My plain, ordinary sedan waits for me on the far side of the parking garage, completely unaware of the excitement and chaos from the half-floor below.
I unlock the car and Declan swoops in front of me. He opens the driver’s-side door, pops the trunk, and then inspects below the steering column. Satisfied, he moves round the vehicle, looking for what, I don’t know. He roots around in the trunk and then slams it shut.
Declan moves with precision and purpose. The way he deftly puts his hands on my car reminds me of the strength he displayed earlier. He could pin me down and keep me from harm but also carefully lift me and carry me inside.
“All clear,” he announces, setting his hands on his hips, his inspection of my car complete. A fire inside my belly screams for him to continue his inspection. To check me with his thorough hands. If rude Declan was attractive, then focused and protective Declan is on a whole other level.
He is being a decent person. He is doing his job, I remind myself.
I mutter my thanks and hold my car keys tight. “I’m fine, really,” I assert once more.
Declan scrutinizes me, his eyes tracking from my eyes down to my hands. “I’ll follow you home in my car,” he says. I open my mouth to object and he holds up a hand. “Final offer. Take it or hand over the keys.” He holds out an open palm, waiting for my decision.
I get in the car. Before I can close the door, Declan stops it. I look over at him, at his arm casually on top of the door. His chocolate eyes are searching, his cologne still fresh and alluring. Declan assesses me like I might faint again.
“I’m letting you follow me.” My words are a little cold.
He gives one nod, accepting this. “We’ll talk more on Monday,” he tells me.
“Oh, and I know you and Ana are getting close,” he starts, “but she doesn’t know about the covert side of things.
So if you need to talk to someone about everything .
. .” He trails off and reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet and a pen.
Quickly, he scribbles something and hands it to me.
Don’t look at his hands. Don’t look at his forearms. Eyes forward.
His FIRE business card. On the back is another number. His number.
If I need to talk to someone about getting shot at and finding out I am working for a bunch of spies I have to talk to . . . Declan?!
I shake my head; the unbelievable nature of this situation continues to escalate. “Got it,” I say and pull the door closed.
Driving away, I can’t help but wonder, What have I gotten myself into?