Chapter 17
Washington, D.C.
Special Agent Trevor Klein pounded away at his keyboard while keeping a sliver of attention on the minimized window in the corner of his screen.
Charleston. Fucking Charleston.
It was supposed to be his come-up. Supposed to make his career. And now, with that woman Victoria gone—the one who'd coaxed him into starting a quiet investigation into Natalie Kennedy, the princess of fucking Charleston—he had nothing.
Victoria had led him down the path, all right. Wined and dined him. She had contacts that made him swoon. They'd even shared a bed, though she was much older. More than willing, though.
And the power. She'd radiated it.
And that had sucked him in completely.
But now ... radio silence. Nothing.
He stopped typing—a letter trying to get a new investigation going, a shot in the dark, really—and focused on the small window.
No way.
He clicked, and the window expanded. He paused the video—a live feed from Mayor Kennedy's staff—and squinted at the background.
Holy shit.
The guy right there. Standing behind her.
He pressed play and let the video resume. A woman with copper hair faints, or collapses—he can't be sure which. The guy catches her, and the camera catches his face for a brief moment.
"Holy fucking shit," Klein breathed.
He'd know that face anywhere. Wyatt Fucking Dane. The guy who'd tanked his career.
Klein closed out the letter he was writing to his boss, put in a quick request for a week off, and was out the door in minutes.
If Wyatt Fucking Dane was in Charleston, that's where FBI Special Agent Trevor Klein needed to be.
So he could bury him once and for all.