CHAPTER ONE
Tall, dark, and unbearably handsome, Duane Scott cut an impressive figure with his hips propped against his bike and a knee bent to rest on the foot peg. Beneath his leather jacket, I spied his customary V-neck tee, muted navy this time, that showcased his sculpted pecs so well. For a minute, I cursed his stalwart adamancy on protective gear because it robbed me of the nice eye candy his bulging biceps presented anytime he crossed his arms over his chest, like now.
A crooked smirk spread across lips. Even with the reflective sunglasses on to block his ebony eyes, I knew he’d clocked me checking him out. “See something you like, babygirl?”
The cadence and hypnotizing rhythm in which he spoke always sent my heart fluttering, but paired with his roguish grin and husky, deepened tone, I stumbled over nothing.
My cheeks flamed red, but he only laughed, accustomed to my clumsiness by now, and dropped a kiss on my forehead as he helped straighten me from my near spill over the sidewalk.
All I needed was to have Brock, the giant, overprotective Serbian worrywart, spot me with another boo boo.
“You alright there, babygirl?”
I frowned at him through my embarrassment. “Stop it, Duane. You know what you did, so don’t play innocent.”
Instead of pretending to be chastened, my sternness only spurred him on more. In fact, he appeared delighted. “Mm. Feisty. I like how you’re coming out of your shell.” His fingers brushed my skin, a microscopic motion, but the action rerouted all of my focus into remembering that he still framed me with his muscular hands.
My inhalation stuttered.
As if he’d taken it upon himself to test just how far he could push my fluster meter, he leaned down, crowding me with his presence until his breath brushed the shell of my ear and his spearmint gum beckoned me further into his thrall. “Must be all the sex.”
And cue combustion.
Here lies Callie King. She lived a great year.
Taking pity on me, Duane chuckled and straightened. “Did you have a nice visit?”
I nodded, still chasing down the scattered cogs of my brain until I recalled Duane wasn’t meant to pick me up. “What’s going on? Corbin and I scheduled a date. Is he hurt? Did his job go south?” Then, remembering Corbin’s trickster nature and that today was April first, I groaned. “No, is he playing an April fools’ joke?”
One of Duane’s substantial brows jumped up, the only hair on his head apart from his thick eyelashes. “Just so we’re clear, he wouldn’t miss a date with you to play a prank.”
I shrugged, donning the riding gear as he handed the items to me from the saddlebag. “Well, someone got their hands on my phone again and messed with my contacts and ringtone, Motorcycle Vet, despite how much I beefed up the security measures. I wondered if it might have precluded something more elaborate.”
Duane tilted his head. “Motorcycle Vet? I guess it could be worse.”
I agreed. “You’re not wrong. The last time they entered you as Dr. Doolittle.”
Duane frowned. “The crazy man who talks to animals?”
“Yes.” My long-sleeved undershirt prevented the jacket from chaffing too much, and the thin material wicked moisture off my skin. When Duane taught me how to dress for bike riding, I’d been skeptical of being able to move through the numerous layers, but now I could concede that everything flowed well and had a purpose.
“It’s because I’m black, isn’t it?”
My eyes rounded, and my hands drew to a halt, paused halfway in pulling the shirt down. “W-What?”
He… He could see that they were both veterinarians, right? Sure, they did both happen to be African American, and…
Duane cracked a smile. “I’m messing with you, babygirl. Finish getting dressed. Corbin’s not here because he and Bryce needed to debrief, but we’ve all been called in for a mandatory meeting. To save time, I volunteered to get you on my way in.”
“Mandatory meeting?”
He unstrapped the second helmet from the back and eased it over my head, working the straps. “From how Emerson tells it, the directive came straight from the top.”
My nerves jumped another notch, sending my voice into hysterical octaves. “Madam Rollins?”
“Okay, not that high, babygirl. Calm down. The Wicked Witch of the West isn’t on her way to assault you. I meant Greg Miller.”
Oh! That was much better. Greg Miller, the leader of Delta, was much friendlier than the cold-hearted Director of the CIA.
“So he’s back from… wherever he went?” I questioned.
Duane bopped me on the nose before sliding the face shield down. “There’s only one way to find out. Do you want to drive? It’s been a while since you’ve practiced, and you never know when you’ll need the skill.”
“With the ornery mood you’re in?” I deadpanned. “We’ll be better off if you drive.”
“Suit yourself. I don’t mind having a pretty girl as my backpack.” His helmet had a black-tinted shield, so when he flipped it down after that comment, I caught my blushing reflection staring back at me, my hazel eyes too wide.
He helped me up and then yanked me close when I attempted to keep some semblance of a socially appropriate inch of space between us.
“Hang on tight, babygirl,” he warned before we rocketed off, the front tire in the air for the entire length of the street the Cardinals lived on.
A knee-trembling brief amount of time later, Duane leaned into a sharp turn, pulling into the parking garage of a hospital.
As demanded by a covert government organization, Delta’s headquarters flew below the radar. From the outside, the building appeared abandoned, and the lobby, if anyone ventured that far, could be described as decrepit. Delta’s elevators were programmed to bypass that level. Instead, to gain entry, we had to enter the hospital beside it then swipe a valid ID inside its elevator from the fourth floor, wherein the camouflaged rear doors would open up to reveal the administrative area of the agency.
“Did they mention the purpose of the meeting?” I questioned, sniffing the enticing aromas swirling from Miss Maggie’s Café. Maybe we could get a cinnamon roll panini afterwards.
“If Miller did, I would have told you. Come on, babygirl. Have a little faith in me, yeah?”
“Sorry,” I muttered. “It’s not you. Elevators make my skin crawl. All this urgency and mystery hasn’t helped either.”
Duane caught my hand and pulled us to a stop outside the flow of foot traffic streaming to the commons for a late lunch after classes. “Okay, I get that we have a big team, but half of us gossip as badly as a bunch of my grandmama’s church busybodies. How is this the first time I’m hearing of an elevator phobia?”
“You didn’t know?”
His brows pinched together, making their S-shape more prominent. “Don’t play innocent. You knew about our ignorance, didn’t you? Damn, how could we have missed this? You’re constantly taking the stairs…” He trailed off. “But you didn’t used to. It’s because of what happened at that underground bunker in Chernobyl, isn’t it? Corbin started joining you about the same time. We all saw the aftermath, but you two witnessed—”
He searched for a suitable description, so I offered him some options. “The elevator from hell? The death chamber? I think someone called it ‘the meat grinder’ at one point. That technician was spot on since the psychopath who made it earned the moniker of Meatgrinder on the dark web—not a pleasant person to meet, let me tell you—”
Duane caught my arms. “Callie, stop. You’re not in trouble. I’m pissed at myself—at all of us, really. How did we overlook something so obvious? We failed you.”
“Duane, you can’t blame yourself for an issue I kept to myself.”
He paused. “Have you discussed this with Dr. Harper?”
I hesitated, bracing for his negative reaction. “Fearing elevators is stupid. With enough exposure therapy, it’ll work itself out, especially since using those death contraptions is the only way to gain access to Delta. The process is just taking a little longer than anticipated. I mean, how many hours did I spend locked in that god-awful water tank but can still enjoy baths?”
Duane’s jaw clenched, but when he cupped my face, his voice came out achingly gentle. “Callie, if it’s a big deal to you, then it’s a big deal, full stop. Talk to Dr. Harper about it. Repressed trauma and mind stuff is his wheelhouse. Heck, drag Corbin with you to one of your sessions. Now that you’ve pointed it out, I doubt he’s overcome his trauma either.”
A scoff sounded, and I turned, spying the bane of my nightmares as he materialized into existence, reclined against the opposite wall in a relaxed pose. “Scared of a stupid elevator? It’s a miracle you pulled the trigger on me.”
Duane frowned and glanced at where I was looking. “Callie? What’s wrong?”
Luckily, the hallway still contained a steady line of people. If Duane was upset about keeping my elevator phobia from him, or elevatophobia as I’d discovered after a quick internet search, he’d be furious to discover who was haunting not just my nightmares, but my waking hours as well.
“Oh, nothing. I thought someone called us.” I’d improved my lying skills out of necessity, but that wasn’t saying much, since the bar had been set so low to begin with. Not wanting to allow him the opportunity to clock my tells, which all the guys seemed to have a detailed, written manual on, I grabbed his hand and pulled us back into the crowd. “We shouldn’t be late. If Director Miller called the entire team, then it must be important.”
“Uh-huh,” Duane replied at length, his tone flat.
I didn’t face him, scanning the sea of people for a new topic. None came forth. It was decided early on that because of my nonexistent documentation and blank history, they would keep me isolated to protect that anonymity.
When the biggest threat to my life was neutralized, my team emphasized that I had the choice to reintegrate into society. Some of them pushed for it. They feared I’d be assigned only dangerous missions that would call for someone of my illegal existence.
For the longest time, I would have agreed and jumped all over the chance to return to the land of the legal, especially after being kidnapped and understanding what I’d done to myself by deleting my digital footprint. If I’d died in some third world country at the hands of a warlord, who would have even noticed?
Since joining this unit, I’d healed and reevaluated my wishes with the advantage of perspective and hindsight. If the government or any criminal tried to sweep me under the rug, the eight men on my team—and the Cardinals—wouldn’t allow me to fade into some black hole of oblivion. They were unequivocally on my side, and that gave me the courage to hold off on accepting the deal.
I spent my life giving criminals an edge, so my soul yearned to be useful to the good guys for a change.
Besides, despite the heavy implications of an expiration date on the offer from the CIA, Greg Miller, the man we were about to meet, assured me the option was open-ended, waiting for me if I ever changed my tune.
He provided an out when I’d never had one before.
“Hey, I lost you for a minute there, babygirl.” Duane’s low voice pulled me from my thoughts.
“Sorry. There’s a lot on my mind.”
“Hm. Did Yolo give you a hard time about dying your hair?”
He’d offered an excuse that was partially true. “Yeah, she did.”
“Callie!” someone called. “Callie-Cat, wait up!”
An unstoppable force maneuvered through the foot traffic, jostling people aside. The mop of tawny brown hair was my first clue since the person yelling was only slightly taller than average. Between one breath and the next, he was in full view, grinning ear to ear. Tan skin, a shade lighter than his hair, made his sunny blue irises pop. An angelic smile adorned his lips, but those sky-colored eyes danced with the devilish spirit of a trickster. “Corbin?”
Corbin wrapped me in a spinning hug. “Callie-Cat! Sweet grandma’s jam and biscuits. I’m sorry we had to cancel our date.”
My reassurances stayed trapped inside as he kept my chest restricted from the strength of his embrace.
Duane chuckled. “Okay, Cor, let her go. She has to breathe.”
Part of flying under the radar meant that the guys weren’t supposed to be affectionate with me where others could see us. Our divergent relationship drew attention. Despite the marching orders, two of our team members never heeded those words of caution, and Corbin Myers was one of them.
“Hey,” I greeted, relieved to have air in my lungs once more. “Did your mission go alright?”
“It was a sugar snap. One and done.” Corbin enjoyed playful wording. It matched his playful spirit.
“Where’s Bryce?”
“I’m here, Callina,” a voice drawled.
“My name’s not Callina,” was my automatic reply. I fought the budding smile and faced the newcomer.
Bryce Rost ambled up at a much more sedate pace than Corbin, looking sharp in his gray jeans and fitted band shirt. Regardless of his best efforts to heckle his high-society mom, he could never truly eradicate his aristocratic childhood. No matter how many times he pierced his ears or streaked his hair with unnatural colors, his upbringing always showed through his mannerisms—the way he effortlessly commanded respect, and even how he carried himself, despite shoving his hands into his pockets.
He shook his head, whipping his sleek strands aside and flashing an eyebrow stud. It was his deep, cobalt blue eyes, however, that stole the spotlight, glittering like the most precious of sapphires. “We’ve had this discussion, Callina. Unless you produce a birth certificate saying otherwise, you’re stuck with it.”
I sighed, still fighting my amusement. He had a way of making matters like not existing seem so trivial.
Noting the losing battle to contain my mirth, he hooked an arm around my shoulders, easily tucking me into his side. Even though he was the shortest, slightest male on the team, I was a full head shorter than him. “Chin up, Callina. You know you love me.”
Despite having known them for just shy of two years, my cheeks still combusted when they flirted, much to their endless joy and my vexation.
Corbin cracked up, nudging Bryce and causing us to stumble. “Great muttering mummies, you’re so stinking adorable when you blush, Callie-Cat.”
Duane crossed his arms, enhancing the dip of his pecs above his shirt’s neckline. “Are you two done? We’re supposed to keep a low profile with her.”
“We didn’t snog her senseless,” Corbin countered. “That’s low profile enough.”
Duane snorted, but we resumed walking without him calling out how Bryce kept his limb dangling off my shoulder. “Snog? You’ve been hanging around our British, but very lovable, team lead too much.”
“Who? Mr. E? Nah.”
I shook my head. “It’s weird that you call Payton Mr. E.”
“Payton?” Corbin sidled up to me, closing the already negligible gap between us even as Bryce tightened his hold. “So sorry, Callie. Not everyone in our little family has been granted first-name privileges. Besides, it’s a word play. Mr. E? Mystery? He’s so mysterious.”
My response died on my lips when my attention caught and held on someone up ahead, the subject of our discussion himself.
“Speak of the devil… Mr. E,” Corbin remarked when we were in range.
Payton nodded in response, holding eye contact with me. “Dr. Scott, Mr. Rost, and Mr. Myer, why don’t you head in? We’re waiting on Mr. Johnson and Mr. Zander, but the twins are inside. They can update you on what we know so far.”
I wasn’t the only one to notice how he’d withheld my name from his British-accented instructions.
“What’s on your mind, Emerson?” Duane prodded.
Payton still hadn’t averted his gaze. “I need to discuss something with Miss King.”
With reluctance, my three escorts disappeared inside. A glimpse through the small window confirmed Payton’s words about the twins. They sat beside each other, one glued to a computer while the other tipped back in his chair, his hands clasped over his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling and swiveled back and forth.
Payton reached out, guiding me farther from the door. He looked frantic, and Payton Emerson never looked frantic.
“Payton?” I asked, hating the tremulous wobble in my voice.
“Miss King—Callie, luv. I know you hate being blindsided, so I wanted to forewarn you. I just finished conversing with Director Miller. A full-team meeting out of the blue is virtually unheard of, and—forgive me. I’m rambling. Let me cut straight to the heart of the matter. He thinks they have a lead on Tarasovich.”
Buzzing filled my ears, and I felt myself blink but couldn’t see it.
“Callie?”
“Oh,” I whispered through numb lips. Unable to broaden my input, I was left repeating, “Oh.”
My own personal ghost reappeared beyond Payton’s shoulder, his maniacal laughter rendering me deaf.
This was not good.