5. Sloane
5
SLOANE
W ith the first delivery sorted—no thanks to the new intruders in the office—I print the last month’s worth of manifests to check while I wait for the next one to come in. It’s a lot to slog through, but as the pages print, Warren comes to sit with me at my desk.
His silence is foreboding. “Listen, I know how much you like it when hierarchy and politics get in the way of your job, but I want you to trust these three. Okay?”
“Why are they really here?” I blurt it out, at my wit’s end with having my space invaded, my computer gone through, my moves monitored and questioned. With the way Shepard looks at me like he knows how I tick.
It makes me want to slam my fists against his chest until they’re bruised. He could probably take it, too, which only infuriates me more. I’ve been running hot all morning.
He smiles that sad dad smile at me. He’s done much more than my own dad did for me, especially since I haven’t heard anything from him since Reese was born. That’s why his going around me rankles so much.
Does he think I’m too brittle right now? Old, deep hurts well up. I push them down the best I can.
“Above my pay grade. Fine. I’m only a civilian, after all. Why should I know anything important?”
He lets his silence spread for a moment as I stew over the fact that I found the issues, and I’m just being pushed aside like I have no brain, no drive to figure it out on my own. How could I possibly?
As a civilian. As a woman. They probably don’t have a lot of faith in my abilities to take this any further. But they’re wrong. I’ll find out what’s going on without their help.
I didn’t need them to begin with.
Why the hell did Warren call them?
“I know it’s frustrating, but I’d rather keep you safe above anything else. Okay?”
My anger finally breaks—just a little. He did always have my back, gave me the leeway I needed to deal with my ex, promoting me without my having to ask for it…
I sigh. “Fine.”
Warren pats my shoulder as he stands. “You’re my best worker, Montgomery. Just remember that.”
I give him a pity laugh, and he knows it, but he smiles anyway. “Bet your ass I am.”
“That’s what I want to hear.” Warren marches back to his office, and I grab my stack of papers, straightening them for my clipboard when one of the three new team members hovers nearby. He’s sitting at one of the empty desks, but none of them have left me alone since they got here.
Shouldn’t he be looking into whatever they thought this was?
When I’m a few feet into the warehouse, he’s coming through the door. So he is going to follow me around. Great. Stand back there while I solve this thing on my own.
It gnawed at me all night, numbers twisting in my dreams and crates opening up to bizarre contents—rubber missiles and candy guns. That last round of Candy Land with Reese played a heavy role in shaping the world, but the problem stemmed from right here.
Refocusing on the manifests in front of me, I check every serial number, climbing and descending the rolling ladder to be sure I can see each one with my own eyes. I won’t be going back to trusting others to do their work.
The entire time, I can see my tail lingering nearby. He’s looking through the inventory, too. What is he looking for, exactly? What can he see that I can’t? Did Warren print him off a list when I wasn’t looking?
Maybe he got everything he needed off my computer before I got in to work today.
When I hit solid ground again, Hastings—if I’m remembering correctly, because none of them are wearing name tags and none of them introduced themselves properly—sidles up behind me, peering over my shoulder to check my list as I’m almost to the bottom of the page.
I turn my head to glare at him, but he merely blends back into the shelves to continue doing whatever it is he’s doing.
It happens again as I near the end of my second page. Hastings is there, those dark eyes focused and intelligent as he purviews the marks I’ve made on the page without comment and goes back to the stacks.
It’s hard not to notice him the longer he lingers nearby. He’s not watching me directly, but when I reach the last two entries on my third page, he’s there again. He has to be paying much better attention than I give him credit for. Although the feeling of being watched is building slowly.
Like a frog in a pot of boiling water.
The heat of it’s getting to me.
Or maybe it’s the glossy black hair and day-old stubble darkening his tanned skin. The intelligence in his eyes when they meet mine. How his T-shirt spreads tight across his chest and shoulders or how he moves so silently. So stealthily. The fact that although he’s checking on me, he’s not getting in my way or peppering me with questions and comments like Shepard.
It means I’m not at all surprised when I find another mislabeled crate and Hastings is hovering at the bottom of my ladder by the time I descend.
“Found something,” I say uselessly. He already knows, of course, from my body language or some other thing. “We need the forklift to get it down and open it up.”
“Where are they?” Hastings’s voice is soft and melodic.
I point to the bay area. “I don’t usually drive them.”
I know how, in theory, but I rarely do so. The muscle is rusty from lack of practice. But I don’t need to explain. Hastings is already on his way to grab one.
While he does so, I go back to checking my list. After another fifteen minutes, he has the crate down and open. I can’t help but come see what the discrepancies have produced.
This box is listed as comms equipment—pretty basic, on the whole—and as Hastings cracks it open, we see a layer of hand radios and a few bigger, long-range satellite comms. The reveal deflates me a little until he pulls out that first layer.
Underneath, between the sleek black boxes are precision barrels, like the kind equipped on sniper rifles or Mk13s.
My heart pumps hard at the sight of them. Why are they hidden away with these electronics? Where are they going? And who’s expected to retrieve them?
I scour the manifest for some clue, but I won’t be able to get anything more until I get back to my computer. I’m itching to run to it and dig, dig, dig until I find the connection I’m looking for. One that’s not just the name of a supplier.
Still, Hastings has his hands on his hips and an almost smile as he surveys me. “Good find.”
Wow, it’s like I actually impressed him. Yeah, Mr. Macho, come in and take over my job. I’ve already got it covered. What do you think about that?
His smile cracks a little wider as if he can read my thoughts, and he runs a hand through his hair without upsetting the natural wave of it. “Call me Rhett, by the way.”
Okay… Why are my muscles easing a little bit from such a small offer of camaraderie? Why does his praise make me feel good about myself?
In return, I offer him a smile.
I swear Rhett has honed in on my mouth even as my smile fades, those dark eyes shining with something dangerous.
Heat blooms in my belly as my teeth pinch my bottom lip. Tension swathes my shoulders, making me grip my clipboard a little tighter to keep from stepping closer.
It’s been a long time since someone looked at my mouth like that. It only makes me notice how soft his mouth looks.
This is troublesome.