EIGHT #2
“I don’t know you.”
“You know Reid trusts me.”
“That’s Reid.” Rorke stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Blackout’s got a bigger problem. We don’t know who inside the agencies we can trust anymore.”
She couldn’t argue with that. Too much information had moved through too many hands already, and every time they thought they understood the trail, another piece disappeared.
“I have clearance,” she said.
“Clearance tells me what you’re allowed to know. It doesn’t tell me where that information goes after you know it.”
That stung more than she wanted it to.
“I’m not feeding information to anyone behind your backs.”
“Maybe not intentionally. But you report to Doyle. Doyle reports to somebody else. That person reports to somebody above him.” Rorke lifted a shoulder. “Every step is another place information can leak.”
Caryssa stared at him.
This wasn’t personal. Somehow, that made it worse.
“So you brought an FBI analyst onto your base and decided not to trust her.”
“We brought you here because we need you.” His expression hardened. “That’s not the same thing.”
They exited through the door, and the fresh blast of cold air struck her face.
The scent of snow was in the air, but the asphalt they stood on was dry.
Without a word, Rorke led the way to one of several black vehicles.
From a glance around, she saw just how hidden they were from the outside world. Only wildlife would spot the vehicles.
They drove down the mountain in near silence. She couldn’t guess what weighed on Rorke’s mind, but her own was spinning around what he’d told her about the leak. She trusted everyone she worked with. So did they. Were they both wrong?
Soon her thoughts turned to Reid.
Had he been at Sierra base this entire time? A few mere hours away from her by plane?
Whenever she thought about the pain she endured, her stomach still clutched in that hollow way. Three orgasms didn’t help her understand the reasons behind his actions.
By the time she and Rorke reached the trucking company’s Portland office, finding a squat, unremarkable building tucked between a tire shop and a self-storage lot, the sky had gone the flat gray that promised the snow she smelled in the air on the mountain.
She withdrew the large ring of keys in her pocket and started sorting through them.
First were regular keys that would match any lock in any door in the country.
There were smaller ones too. When she angled a tarnished one toward the light, she saw the engraving.
“This one belongs to a post office box.”
Rorke glanced away from the road. “Here in Portland?”
“Doesn’t say. There are two other small keys. Might fit a lockbox or something similar.”
Neither said more as Rorke parked the SUV.
Caryssa fondled the keys. “Side door?”
Rorke threw her a nod. “You find the key?”
“Got it.”
“I thought agencies always knock on the door and serve the warrant before entering.”
She gripped it between her thumb and forefinger. “Let’s do this my way.”
He gave her another quirk of a smile as they hurried to the building, but he quickly snapped into military mode, one hand hovering over his sidearm he carried along his spine, and his head swiveling left and right as he scoped out the area for danger.
Not a soul was around to even serve a warrant to, which didn’t surprise Caryssa. She’d been on enough assignments to know most of these so-called businesses were often vacant, and the people who actually worked in them—if any did—weren’t there on a permanent basis.
She pressed close to the side entrance with Rorke crowding around her. She slipped the key into the lock, and it turned with a well-oiled twist.
“FBI!” she called out, pulling her own weapon as they burst in. “We’ve got a warrant! Anyone in the building, step into the hall with your hands up!”
Not a sound came from the offices lining the hallway and nobody stepped out.
Rorke rushed ahead, shoving open the first door with his shoulder. “Clear!”
He cleared three more offices, all with unlocked doors. Using a handheld thermal imager, Rorke checked the rest of the place and found it empty, just as Caryssa thought.
She stowed her weapon in her holster again and reached for the keys. She flipped through several on the ring labeled office one, two and three.
“We won’t be needing these. This is what we want.” She held up a fourth with a label that said PRIVATE.
They tested every door and found them all unlocked. At the end of the hall, they located one that wasn’t.
Taking a deep breath, Caryssa slipped the key into the lock and twisted it.
It opened, and she let out the breath in a rush.
Rorke positioned himself beside her, weapon ready. The thermal sweep had come up empty, but he clearly wasn’t taking that as a guarantee.
“Ahh.” She turned in a semicircle. The dead man’s private office.
They started searching the space in a methodical sweep. Desk first. Drawers. The laptop sitting dead center on the desk in invitation.
She pulled it and set it aside to take with them. From her short time on base, she’d seen O at the computer more than anyone else. She didn’t know his exact role, but she guessed he was their tech expert. She’d give him the laptops once they were back on base.
They rifled through file folders and took them all, but she quickly scanned them for an invoice for a PO box or anything connected to Antonio’s Ristorante.
On first glance, it was just invoices and delivery manifests, the predictable paper trail of a business owner who was either very ordinary or very good at looking ordinary.
Her phone buzzed, and her gaze flew to Rorke’s.
At his nod, she answered it. Cannon’s terse voice filled her ear. “Give me your status.”
“We’re in.” She pitched her voice low though they were alone. “Nothing to report yet.”
“Keep searching and bring back everything you can carry.”
“Copy.” She pocketed her phone again, swinging toward Rorke just as he thumped a panel behind the desk with his fist.
“Hear that?” he asked and thumped again, producing a noise somewhat thicker than the last.
“Hollow,” they said at the same time.