Chapter 3
"If you live among wolves you have to act like a wolf." ~Nikita Khrushchev
Axel
Lucky: 911. Gwen followed you!
Lochlan’s text message sets my heart racing. I jump off the stool and sprint out of the bar. On the porch, I launch over the steps, land on the sidewalk, then swivel toward a scream.
Where the fuck is my wife? On the ocean side of the dark street, tires squeal, and a motor roars before it fades away.
A wiry kid in his twenties stops thumbing his phone, and when he raises his brows at me, I ask, “Did you see a pretty brunette in her thirties, about this height?”
Tugging up his butt-hanging jeans, he points down the block. “Over there.”
In the mist-like rain, I trot toward a bearish man dressed in black who rises from all fours. When he reaches his six-foot height, the knife in his right hand catches the light.
“FBI! Hands where I can see them.” My fingers snap under my jacket.
As I clutch my weapon’s handle, the motherfucker bounds into a crowd of men wearing socks with sandals. He pushes through them into an alley and hops the fence. Only a few steps behind, I drop onto the stones bordering a beach house, but his footsteps crunch in the next yard.
Dammit. I can’t believe I lost him. Five or six minutes later, I give up the search and ring Gwen. When she doesn’t pick up, I text.
Me: CALL!
Hopefully, I was wrong, and it wasn’t her scream I heard in the street. My God, imagining what could’ve happened makes my blood run cold.
With my cell in hand, I jog toward the bar where I left Britt. It pings as I round the corner, so I stop and swipe. “Sweetheart, are you alright?”
“Oi’m fine, mate. Thanks for askin’. Now, your lovely wife, that’s another story.” Digesting Lucky’s words, my hands shake as I picture the knife slicing her beautiful face.
“Shit. Is she hurt? She’s not picking up.”
“What did you expect? Did you fuck your ex, ya bloody idiot?”
“What? Hell, no. Why? Did Brittany say so?” My right fist clenches, and my ears pound while my friend sighs.
“No. Gwen did. She said you and the skank exited the dunny lookin’ thoroughly fucked. Which, by the by, you are, in the worst possible way.”
She saw us? Damn, no wonder she’s not answering her phone. Whooshing out my breath, I slide my hand through my hair, drop onto a bench, and keep a close watch for anyone or anything suspicious.
The bars must be closing soon because their drunken patrons fill the street and share sloppy goodbyes. Once a noisy group passes me, I return the electronics to my ear.
“Hell, it was all a show, so the informant would think Britt and I were together.”
Lucky curses under his breath, and in the background, dishes clatter. “Why not start at the beginning? Why the fuck are you with Brittany when you should be in bed with your missus? And why did you let your wife tail you?”
How many times tonight have I asked myself the exact same things? “ In answer to your first question, Babcock said she was approached by an old friend willing to give up intel on Ledbetter in exchange for a deal. Secondly, I had no idea Gwen would follow.”
The Aussie snorts through his nose. “I’m not a Feddie, but don’t you blokes have protocols?”
His words hit home, and I wish like fuck I had never answered the damn door.
“Brittany claimed her guy, Evan Danbury, would only speak to me, and it had to be tonight.” My pride caused this disastrous night, and because of it, my wife could be bleeding out in the middle of nowhere.
“That didn’t ring any alarms?” The interrogation, although well-intentioned, is preventing me from finding Gwen.
I speak faster, so he’ll get the hint. “I called Trever. You remember my geek? Anyhow, he confirmed she works for Interpol.”
“So, without any backup, you followed your lunatic ex into a bar to meet a supposed snitch. While there, she kissed you on the lips. Right after, you two traipsed into the loo and came out looking thoroughly fucked. Have I got this right?” He makes me sound like a moron, and perhaps I deserve it.
“She said we had to make it real.”
“Well, kudos, mate. It worked. Your wife believed the whole performance. Bravo.” When he claps his hands, I’ve had enough and snap.
“Can Callie call her and explain? I would never cheat. We’re on our honeymoon, for fuck’s sake, I love my woman more than life itself. I need to know she’s okay.” My stomach churns, and I text Gwen again.
Me: Babe, I don’t care if you’re mad. Please message me if you’re alive.
“I’ll see what I can do but you may be spending the rest of your vacay on the couch.”
“Whatever. As long as she’s unharmed.” Cursing my stupidity, I walk to the watering hole where Brittany waits on the porch.
Arms crossed, she taps her painted toes. “What was your wife doing here?”
“She was our backup.” I love how her eyes widen.
“She’s an operative?” The psycho tries to interpret my facial cues. At one time, she might’ve been able to read me. Since then, I’ve perfected my poker face.
“My missus has three doctorates and security clearances up the wazoo.” I allow her to read me because this is all true.
Ms. Interpol scowls. “Well, for a smart woman, she screwed up royally. She spooked my rat, and he may never escape his hole again. No wonder your task force is failing so miserably.”
“Let’s go.” Done taking hits, I grab her forearm and lead her to where we parked the car.
“You are a total fuckup, and I should never have quit the FBI for you.” The venom in her tone surprises me.
Stopping abruptly, I face her, lower my voice, and keep the cadence smooth and calm. “I never asked you to.”
My manner seems to incite her more. Spittle spews as she hisses, “You knew full well we couldn’t be on the same team and still have sex.”
“Which is why I broke it off.” My jaw drops. We only slept together four or five times. She was the one who insisted we stay casual. Why the anger? Why now? It’s been years.
“You loved me, and you still do.” She cups my cheeks, and I step back before she can bring her lips to mine.
“Britt, I’ve got a wife and kid. Nothing is going to happen between us.” I almost add, ‘You’re delusional,’ but bite my tongue. She can believe whatever she wants if she stays clear of me and Gwen.
Silent, jaw muscles clenched, she drives her Caddy back to my house. Just as we’re about to turn onto my road, she grabs my crotch.
“I said no.” Peeling her hand off me, I note the Jeep in my driveway and thank God my Gwen made it home.
“Ah, come on now. I was just kidding around.” Her antics overshoot my bullshit threshold by a mile.
“Pull over.”
When she doesn’t slow, I reach for the key, turn it, and toss it out the window.
Her face turns into an ugly sneer. “You need me, and if you don’t work with my informant, I’ll tell your Assistant Deputy Director how you screwed up your one opportunity to take Ledbetter down.”
“Get some help, Britt.” I jump out of the car, slam the door, and run toward my porchlights.