TEN #2
He pushed his phone toward Hutchins.
“Do you know him?”
He studied the image but shook his head. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“He was undercover FBI, protecting a woman who’s become the focus of an ongoing investigation,” Rome supplied.
Rivers swiped to another photo of the dead agent.
Hutchins winced. “Damn.”
“Where were you on the night of the twenty-first?”
He didn’t even blink when he gave his answer. “Here. On base.” He was calm but confused in the way that innocent people got confused when someone showed up without warning and started asking questions.
Rome traded a look with Rivers. They both knew what the other was thinking. His alibi was tight—and easily traced if he was lying.
They thanked him and walked out.
In the corridor, Rivers kept his voice low. “Facial match was solid. So what’s next?”
“Duty roster,” Rome said.
It took twenty minutes to get eyes on it. Hutchins’s alibi was solid. He was on base, accounted for and his last leave was six weeks prior. No gaps in time.
Rome got O on the phone and looped him in on what they learned.
O’s response came back measured. “Hutchins didn’t do it.”
Rome’s brows pinched. “Keep talkin’.”
“The surveillance footage was altered. Someone inserted Hutchins’s identity into the facial recognition results.” O paused. “That kind of manipulation isn’t amateur work. It’s Cipher-level.”
“Cipher’s locked down. No access to hardware or systems.”
“Which means someone either found a way to give him access…” O let the thought hang. “Or someone else has the same skill set.”
Silence stretched.
“Here’s what bothers me,” O said. “The match was too perfect. Whoever planted Hutchins’s identity wanted us to find him.”
“They wanted us to chase him.”
“Exactly.”
Rome stared down the length of the empty corridor.
Someone had built a ghost and pointed them straight at it.
The question was what they were being pointed away from.
* * * * *
From what Stina knew so far about Sierra team was that things were organized with ruthless efficiency.
But that truth did not extend to their walk-in freezer.
She’d been digging through it for twenty minutes, unearthing vacuum-sealed packages and reading labels, but most of the food in there wasn’t labeled at all.
She picked up a big package. Judging from the color, she guessed it wasn’t beef, which left chicken or pork.
She sliced open the package and issued a small cry of victory. The sound seemed somehow sad in the big space, more startling because it was the first sound she’d made all day.
She’d spent her morning going through the box of clothing Jolie gave her. She tried it all on, neatly folded what didn’t work and placed it back in the box.
Her friend was deep in college midterms, leaving her on her own. And Rome…well, she hadn’t seen him all day.
She leafed through some fashion magazines from the eighties but the instant she heard a sound, she tossed the magazine aside and bolted upright, listening for Rome’s voice.
After realizing what she was doing, she hit the gym and spent half an hour on the treadmill—only to find she was still listening for Rome.
Finally, she gave up and headed for the kitchen.
An idea had been taking shape ever since the night before, when Rome wandered in ahead of the rest of the team.
She’d told everyone about her baba making pierogi from scratch every Sunday without fail. Stina could still picture the older woman with flour dusting her forearms, humming a Ukrainian tune Stina had never learned the words to.
Rome’s response had been casual, tossed out as if it meant nothing.
My grandma made stuffed pork chops.
For reasons she couldn’t explain, the memory had stayed with her.
She filled a large bowl with cold water, dropped in a package of frozen pork chops to thaw, and got to work.
She tore the leftover bread into chunks and seasoned it, adding onion softened in butter and a handful of spices from the pantry, using her sense of smell to determine what worked.
She told herself she was cooking this dish because she had leftover bread and her first attempt hadn’t been as light and fluffy as she would have liked.
Because the team needed to eat.
She absolutely was not doing it because she’d woken up in Rome’s bed at some point during the night and felt the solid warmth of him next to her.
And she definitely wasn’t doing it because she’d reached for him when she woke and found only his pillow.
She pushed the thought away and focused on the pork chops.
As they baked, even she had to admit the kitchen smelled extraordinary. She timed all the dishes to come out of the oven at the same time. When the guys followed the scents into the kitchen, she found herself holding her breath, waiting for Rome.
He didn’t come.
She placed everything on the counter so the men could fill their plates and watched them take joy in a homecooked meal, but some of her excitement had fizzled.
Jolie drifted in last, giving Stina all the praise she could hope for. But it still left her feeling a little flat.
She filled her own plate and settled next to O—Odin, Opie or whatever his name was. Keeping her voice light, she asked, “Is Rome coming to dinner?”
He looked up from his stacked plate, a big bite halfway to his mouth. “He’s not on base.”
“Oh.”
“He and Rivers are in Chicago.”
The word was a cold brick in her stomach, but she put extra effort into keeping her expression neutral.
She sliced into the tender pork and gathered a bit of stuffing on her fork but didn’t place it in her mouth. “When will they be back?”
“When they finish their assignment.”
She nodded as though that answered anything at all and gave up trying to pretend that somehow, in a short time, Rome hadn’t started taking over her thoughts.
The thought of Rome in Chicago sent ice into her veins. He could only be sent on assignment because of her.
What if those guys who chased them found him again? What if this time—
She cut off the rambling thoughts and pushed away from the table. Her throat felt strange, and she had to swallow more than once.
Chicago.
The city she called home always held danger. Living there, working there, she had to navigate it with the awareness a woman required when she was alone, and even when she wasn’t.
She wanted to ask what Rome and Rivers were doing there.
She wanted to sit across from Rome at this table while he devoured pork chops like his grandmother used to make, and she wanted to ask him if he ran into danger.
Dammit, she wanted to hear his voice.
She wiped down the counter and ordered herself to stop it.
One by one the men stood from the table, thanking her as they placed their plates in the dishwasher.
After they all filed out again, she was alone.
She looked around, wondering how to keep her mind off…well, everything.
She started pulling out ingredients for cinnamon rolls and placed yeast in warm water.
She needed something to keep her hands busy and her mind from running out of control. Working with dough was therapeutic, especially when she punched it down.
By the time she rolled out the dough and sprinkled it with sugar, cinnamon and nuts, she felt somebody staring at her.
She glanced up to see Jolie in the doorway. “You okay?” her friend asked.
Stina kept her attention on what she was doing. “Fine.”
“You’re stress baking. That doesn’t seem fine to me.”
She grunted in response.
Jolie crossed to the counter and stole a walnut. “Rome’s not back yet.”
She didn’t mean for her hands to pause but they did, hovering over the sweet treat. “I noticed.”
“He’ll be back.”
Stina smashed some nuts into the dough with a little too much energy. “I don’t know why it matters to me.”
Jolie watched her with an expression that meant she was weighing her reaction. “I’m here if you want to talk about it.”
“I’m cooking to keep my mind off being trapped here.”
“And we’re all eating very well since you came.” She placed her hand over Stina’s, stilling it over the dough.
Despite herself, Stina laughed. The outburst loosened a tight knot inside her, and together, she and Jolie finished the cinnamon rolls together.
But after they were out of the oven, Stina didn’t know what to do with herself. She went to her room and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the cold concrete wall.
Then she gave up and walked across the hall to Rome’s room.
She didn’t let herself think too hard about why she was taking off her jeans and climbing under his covers, or why pressing her cheek into his pillow made her feel less lonely, but it did.
Maybe it was the soap and mountain air thing.
Maybe it was the bossy jerk thing she thought she gave up when she dumped her last boyfriend.
If she was forced to lie awake all night wondering if he was safe, she would do it right here—in the place where she felt less anxious than she ever did back in the safety of her own apartment.
And when Rome finally walked through that door, she would give him a piece of her mind for making her worry all day.
Right before she kissed him.