Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
MALLORY
The first person through the stairwell door pointed a gun at me.
Not entirely unexpected, but I raised both hands. The last thing I wanted was to be shot by friends, foes, or the FBI.
“Mallory McBryan?”
“That depends on whether you’re planning to shoot me.”
“Hands where I can see them.”
“They are where you can see them.”
His expression suggested my clarification wasn’t appreciated.
More agents crowded the landing behind him. Tactical gear. Weapons. Body armor. The kind of response that suggested someone had either found a bomb or believed one was about to go off.
Considering the evening I’d had, either seemed plausible.
“Turn around.”
I did.
“Hands against the wall.”
That seemed excessive, but considering they were armed, I did that too.
Boots pounded up the stairs behind them. A lot of boots.
“What exactly are you expecting to find?” Probably not the best time to question them, but I did want to know.
“Ma’am, don’t move.”
Ma’am. The address chafed.
Starting at my wrists, they patted me down, checked the waistband of my jeans, then moved to my ankles. Another agent swept past me through the open doorway.
“Clear left.”
“Moving.”
“Clear.”
More voices joined them.
I kept my hands on the wall. The whole thing might have been amusing if the adrenaline hadn’t started leaking out of me in ugly little increments.
Simon was gone. Though, I suspected he’d not actually been here at all. He’d staged it perfectly whether he’d been present or not. I still hadn’t decided what I believed about that.
A hand closed around my shoulder. I jerked away before I could stop myself.
“Mal.”
Flint.
I turned. The expression on his face pushed all of the air out of me as though a fist had struck me in the solar plexus. Worse than the imagined hit was the absolute fury burning in his eyes.
Not regular Flint irritated. Not the dry, long-suffering exasperation I’d grown accustomed to—and so often enjoyed—provoking. This was something raw and so intense, I almost didn’t recognize him.
Then he grabbed me.
There was no graceful way to describe it. One second I was standing against the wall, staring up at him, and the next his arms locked around me like a cage. He squeezed me so tight, I couldn’t even draw in a breath though his scent tickled my nose.
We both froze, and while he loosened his grip enough to let me inhale, he didn’t let me go.
“I’m okay.” The words fell from my lips, but he merely shifted a hand up to thread through my hair before he cupped the back of my skull.
Apparently he needed independent verification.
“Flint.”
“I heard you.” The words vibrated with a wild kind of ferocity.
“I’m okay.” I fisted his jacket, the hammer of his heart beating out a staccato rhythm against my chest.
“I heard that too.” There was something wrong with his voice. It wasn’t just the growl, or the anger.
Before I could ask, another figure appeared behind him.
Brewster.
If Flint looked furious, Elliot looked—I couldn’t classify it. That bothered me.
He climbed the final steps slowly. His attention moved over me once, clinically enough that I recognized the assessment. No blood. No visible injuries. No restraints. No obvious distress.
For the first time since Flint grabbed me, I tightened my own hold on him. Something in Elliot’s eyes had shifted and they were far from friendly.
Too far.
Then a polished, professional mask slipped into place. “Where is he?”
No hello. No glad you’re alive. Apparently we'd skipped directly to business.
I eased away from Flint, but he only let one arm drop. The other he kept firmly around me as he turned to face Brewster at my side.
“Who?” Was I asking for trouble? Probably, but I refused to assume anything.
Brewster stared at me.
I was tired enough that I almost smiled. Almost.
“The Auditor.” If Flint’s voice had been fire and fury, Elliot—no, not Elliot, Brewster. Brewster’s voice was all icy disdain.
Simon. The correction happened inside my head before I could prevent it. As interesting as that was, I refused to examine it too closely. Not right now.
“I don’t know.” The simplest answer was often the easiest. And in this case, it was also the truth.
“You don't know where he went?” Brewster studied me through cold eyes.
“I don't know where he was,” I said, amending my statement in order to clarify it.
Brewster's expression tightened. “You were talking to him.”
“Yes.”
“Where?” He snapped out that question like a bullet fired from a gun.
“Up here.” I leaned into Flint when his arm tightened around me. On the one hand, I’d rather stand on my own two feet, but on the other—well, on the other, I needed the support from him. Maybe more than he needed to give it.
“Where up here?” Impatience licked each word and the aggravation wound even tighter through the FBI agent. The vein throbbing in his forehead suggested that he was well and truly angry with me.
I pointed through the open door. “Office at the end of the hall.”
He looked past me. “Foster.”
“Already clearing it.”
Brewster returned his attention to me. “Did you see him leave?”
“I never saw him arrive.” Then because I wanted to be clear, I added, “I never saw him at all.”
That stopped him. Flint too.
“What does that mean?” Brewster asked.
“It means exactly what I said.” I wasn’t sure I could put it in plainer words.
“Were you alone?” He demanded.
“Yes.”
“With the Auditor.” Was he trying to trip me up?
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
I rubbed at the ache beginning at my temples. “Physically, I was alone.”
Disbelief coupled with suspicion in Brewster’s eyes. “How did you communicate?”
“Via computer.”
“A video call?” The questions were fired almost on top of my answers.
“No.”
“Audio?”
“Also no.”
Flint went very still beside me.
I noticed because Flint rarely went completely still unless something had captured every bit of his attention.
Brewster didn't react at all. Wasn’t that even more interesting?
“Explain.” Brewster was turning ever more imperious in this interrogation.
“Text.”
His stare stayed fixed on me. “Only text?”
“Yes.” Was he hoping that I’d make a mistake? It irked, but I allowed him his impatience. I had cut him out of this.
Behind Brewster, the agents glanced toward another. It was a small, possibly meaningless movement. Except Flint noticed it as well. Because he swept them with a look and asked, “What?”
Neither agent answered.
Switching his attention to Brewster, Flint asked, “What?”
With a dismissive wave, Brewster said, “We'll discuss it downstairs.”
“No.” Flint's voice remained perfectly level. “We'll discuss it now.”
“This is an active scene.” Fresh anger flashed into Brewster’s eyes.
“You asked whether she communicated by audio.” The correction, delivered in a light tone, carried a much heavier weight. Something else was going on here. Something I wasn’t aware of.
“Because it's relevant.” Once again, Brewster tried to wave Flint off, but I could have told him that would never work. Once Flint got his teeth into something, I was practically reasonable by comparison.
Flint's eyes hardened. “That's not why.”
I looked between them. There was an entire conversation happening around me that I hadn't been invited to. I hated it.
“What happened downstairs?” Irritatingly, they both ignored me.
Instead, Brewster eyed me. “Did he identify himself?”
Interesting pivot. But I wasn’t playing anymore. “Answer mine.”
“Mallory.”
“Elliot.”
A muscle flexed beside his mouth. There was something almost satisfying about being able to irritate him when I was exhausted.
“We need to get you out of this building.” Another pivot, one I bought even less than the previous. He wanted me to answer his questions and that was it.
“Eventually.” It wasn’t a promise, just an offer.
Apparently, he wasn’t buying it either. “Now.” The order grated.
“I want to know what happened downstairs,” I told him.
“And I want to know exactly what happened up here.” Mine had been a far more pleasant comment than his, but here we were.
The stalemate.
Flint shifted me, easing me back a half-step so he could move more between us. He wasn’t blocking Brewster, but there was no mistaking the body language. If he wanted to get to me, Brewster would have to go through Flint.
The non-verbal communication translated very well.
The arrival of one of the tactical agents save them from addressing the translation immediately. “Floor's clear.”
It also bought me a moment away from Brewster’s intense glare as he switched his attention to the agent. “Entire floor?”
“Every accessible space.”
“Secondary exits?”
“Checking.”
“Windows?”
“Sealed on the east side. Some construction openings west, but nothing showing recent disturbance.”
“Roof access?”
“Negative from this level.”
Brewster's jaw tightened. “Elevators?”
“Still locked.”
“Then he's here.” Brewster gritted out those words like they were a personal affront.
“No,” I told him and everyone looked at me. “I don’t think he was ever here.”
The silence turned profound.
Then Brewster narrowed the gap between us and seemed to ignore the fact his shoulder collided with Flint’s. “You just told me you spoke to him.”
“I did.” It cost me nothing to confirm it.
“From this building.”
“Yes,” I said, agreeing with him, “I was in this building.”
His expression changed again. I could almost watch him rebuilding the question. “Where was he?”
“I don't know.”
Eyes narrowed, he leaned in closer until his breath feathered over my face with every word. “Did he tell you?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?” As intimidation tactics went, questioning me on what I would have asked or not did not help his case.
“Yes.” I refused to be insulted because of course I asked.
“And?”
“He didn't answer.” To be fair, that wasn’t entirely true. Simon had answered me plenty, but he rarely answered the questions I’d been asking.
Brewster studied me for a long moment. “Did he give you a name?”