Chapter 8
The FBI shield was more of a surprise than the red wig. For a moment, Donovan didn't know what to say or think. Why was Rachel in possession of a shield? Why did she feel the need to sit here and bury it in the dark? There was one word above all else that he hated, and that word was why. He picked up the small metal box and carefully set it beside him. Rachel stayed where she was, occasionally eyeing him suspiciously. For the life of him, he didn't understand why she would dare look at him in such fashion. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but didn't quite know how to begin. Instinctively, he moved quickly, grabbing her wrist tightly in case she had plans to escape.
"Let me go," she hissed at him through clenched teeth.
"Not until we talk about this shield," he said, matching her ire.
Deftly, he grabbed the metal canister and kept a tight grip on her wrist. He managed to stand up, raise her, and hold onto the box at the same time. It was difficult, it took skill. However, it was a skill he was proud to call his own. Not giving her time to protest, he pressed on toward his hut. Rachel had to sludge through the sand to keep up with him. She didn't speak. She knew there was no use. He was going to get answers from her regardless of her reluctance to do so. If anyone could have seen them, the scene might have been amusing. They appeared to be out of some stone aged cartoon. A tall man dragging a woman along behind him to be thrown into his cave. It wasn't funny to either party. The situation had gotten serious within nanoseconds.
Donovan stopped at his door, tucked the canister under his arm, and dug out his key. One handed, he stuck it into the lock, turning it clockwise, until he heard it hitting home. He opened the door and literally swung her inside. Again, if eyes had been on them, it would have appeared to be a very slick dance move. Checking behind him and seeing no one, Donovan walked inside, shutting the door with a bang. Once he knew Rachel had no escape route, he locked the door.
During her swinging trip inside the hut, Rachel had had to hit the bed with her full weight to avoid a tumble onto the floor. She sat at an angle, holding onto the bedspread for dear life. She had good purchase now, so she quickly righted herself. She had no way to escape, no matter how much she sought it. This was a conversation she did not want to have with him right now. It didn't matter. He wanted to have it and have it he would. She watched as he carelessly tossed the metal box onto the room's table. It hit with a solid plunk. If the table remained unmarred after that, she would be surprised. The accountant in her head ticked off about two hundred dollars for a replacement table.
He walked toward the table, grabbed the back of its chair, and brutally dragged it forward. He whirled it around, placing it in front of her. His face was red, his lips pursed. She had training, she knew how to get herself out of such jams. She didn't use it. In hindsight, she probably wanted this confrontation to happen. Coming clean at this stage would be awkward no matter how badly she didn't want it to be. She had only seen him this angry once. It was the night he found out she had been recruited for the CIA at the same time as he. As her mother would have said, they had a pure 'coming to Jesus' meeting. It ended with her slamming out the door, seeking a place to sleep for the night.
Donovan plopped down onto the chair, tensing his body slightly, and leaned forward. It gave him the upper hand. She could spit in his face, slap him, or do a number of things. It would not, however, give her an easy exit. "The shield, Rachel. Tell me about the shield."
There had been two things she buried tonight. One of them he hadn't discovered, which was good for her. The other he caught right away. "It's mine."
He smiled very slightly. It wasn't a good smile. It was almost evil, filled with ire, and something else. Was it hurt? Is that what she saw? "No shit, Rachel. I think I figured out that much. Why do you have it?"
She crossed her legs, as well as her arms. It was a move most interrogators knew about. It normally meant the person was completely closed about everything. If he wanted the truth, he would certainly have to work it out of her. She wasn't about to volunteer anything. "Call HQ and find out yourself."
He came forward suddenly, surprising her with his stealth. Before she could take in a breath of satisfaction, he was on her. His hands clamped down on her arms and he pried them apart. Grasping them tightly, he pulled her body forward. There was only mere inches separating them. His nose was almost touching hers. This was something she completely didn't expect him to do. God help her, she came close to screaming her head off. This insane jerk was going to kill her. She was convinced. She had pushed a button that was left untouched far too long. Pushing it had forced the man to dive off the deep end.
"I could do that," he said in a low, severe voice, one reserved for the worst of the worst. "I can also make you tell me. Do you believe that?"
Rachel had to admit that she was terrified. She hadn't been so close to him in a very long time. She could actually feel his breath fanning her face. It was steady, hot. After a moment, she thought for sure he was bluffing. He always prided himself with how he handled tough situations without bluffing. Tonight, he was laying it on thickly. He wouldn't hurt her, he wouldn't force her to do anything she didn't want. Perhaps it was his way of getting to the truth where she was involved. Another part of her didn't know what to make of his words. She knew about his time in the CIA. Hell, she had had her own scars from her time there. At times, they had to do things that normally couldn't be done with any of the other factions of the US government. Torture was one way. Had Donovan ever tortured anyone? He had never told her about it. If he was bluffing, she would call it.
"I believe it," she told him, bringing her chin up defiantly. "Go on. Make me."
He almost came unglued at that. Did she think he was bluffing? Oh yes. She was trying to push his buttons. Just like the old days. Nothing about her had changed. He realized with something close to annoyance that his hands had begun to sweat. In a few moments, Rachel would certainly manage to break his hold. If he didn't act fast, she would be gone. His questions would remain unanswered, of course, until he was back in Miami, facing the director demanding to know why Rachel Sloane had a shield. Allowing her to unnerve him was his one mistake.
Within a few seconds, just as he predicted, Rachel broke free from his grasp. She leaned her body to the side, her arm shooting forward. It connected solidly with his mid-section. A sound escaped him as his body flew backward against the chair. If her punch had a bit more force behind it, he probably would have fallen flat on his ass. It distracted him enough where she managed to move away from the bed toward the front door. Jerking his own body to one side, he grabbed a handful of her tee-shirt. She staggered back a few steps, nearly losing her footing. If it had been any other material besides a poly/cotton blend, it would have ripped completely off her body. Stubbornly, she grabbed her shirt and yanked it free. Her hand fell on the knob, she was within a few feet of freedom. She never made it. Donovan came up to his feet quickly. Diving for Rachel's body in what could only be described as a low flying tackle, he took her down to the floor. Her face pressed heavily against the worn wooden surface. She grimaced at the smell of age, dirt, and floor cleaner.
He jerked her arms up behind her as he slowly moved upward, firmly planting his knee into the small of her back. Beneath him, she writhed, spat, and cursed, calling him every dirty name she could think of. It didn't stop him. Taking grand pleasure in her discomfort, he felt an evil grin forming on his lips. If she wanted to play dirty, he certainly could make it worth her while.
"I will help you up if you would like to talk," he began. "I won't trust you, however, so as soon as we're both on our feet, I'm cuffing you. What would you like?"
Her voice was muffled by the floor and the position of her neck. Her cheek was pressed firmly down. "I'd like you to go fuck yourself."
He pushed down hard on her back. She groaned aloud at the force of his knee. "That hurt. Didn't it?" He leaned down a bit, just not enough to give her a chance to fight back. "Now, let's try again. What would you like?"
"Get off me!"
Slowly he brought himself to a kneeling position. It was difficult to do so, he had to twist about to do it. Once his knee was safely planted on the floor, he pushed upward with one leg just enough so she was on her knees. "Together, we stand. On three."
One, two, three, both were on their feet again. He walked backward toward the bed. His duffel bag rested close to the side of it. Gripping both wrists in one hand, Donovan leaned down to grab the bag. She could have gotten away if she tried. She didn't. She was either too tired or in some pain. Neither of them were kids anymore. He threw the bag onto the bed. The side compartment was where he kept an extra set of handcuffs along with his Glock. He dug the cuffs out quickly, slapping them onto her wrists from behind. Once she was safely secured, he pushed her backward until she was sitting on the bed again.
"I give up, Donovan," she said tiredly. "It's not necessary to cuff me."
"We tried that once, didn't we? You decided to fight. Simply, Rachel, I don't trust you." He turned away to grab his chair. From behind him, she stuck her tongue out. He dragged it around in front of her. "Now, tell me why you have a shield."
"No one, including Jack, knows this," she began.
"Whatever, Rachel. I don't fucking care. Get to the meat of the story."
Oh yeah, he was angry. He didn't drop many f-bombs unless he was purely upset. "If you know anything about FBI shields, mine is different. It's probably not one you've seen in a while."
"Special division? Is that it?"
She shook her head. "Not even close. Internal Affairs."
"Internal Affairs? Agent wrongdoing?" He didn't understand anything anymore. "How are you qualified for that?"
"Is that all you wanted to know? How I am qualified?" She threw back her head and laughed heartily at that. She kept laughing as she looked down and shook her head. "How rich, Donovan. My CIA training got me an 'in,' so to speak. Along with a good cover as an attorney. Works very well together, if you ask me."
Donovan didn't know if he believed her or not. What possessed her to bury her shield? Was someone onto her? He stared at her for a very long time. Her eyes were shining now. She felt she had the upper hand. None of this made sense. "If you're Internal Affairs, what the hell are you doing here? When I saw you tonight, you were burying your shield. Do I need to call the director to find out what you're doing?"
"No," she answered simply. "You don't. I was burying my shield because I'm close to resigning. I didn't want Jack to find the shield. Or you. Or anybody. I don't think I want my job. Not since I was asked to go UC when the Souvenir killings were at their height."
"But you have been an attorney even longer? I'm sorry, Rachel, I don't understand."
The look on Donovan's face was classic. Yet, she was sorry she had hurt him. It was wrong. "I have. I've also been an agent almost as long. I was approached after court several years ago about an opportunity to join IA. A lot of cases in my fields of practice rely on FBI agents. Some of them dirty."
"Your fields?" Donovan stood up, paced the room, and mumbled words that Rachel could not make out.
"Yes, Frank, my fields. I do both entertainment and criminal. When the first TSK victim was tied to the entertainment field, I switched exclusively to entertainment law. I was sent in UC to investigate whether or not the FBI has blood on their hands."
Her latter comments stopped Donovan in his tracks. From a few feet away, he glared at her. "What are you saying, Rachel?"
"You know what I'm saying," she said slowly, thoughtfully. "Someone is covering for the crimes. That someone is most likely tied to the FBI."
"You're wrong," he said carefully. "Further, you're cracked in the fucking head if you think for one second that I believe this line of shit you're trying to feed me."
Venom dripped from every word that came out of his mouth. Even when they weren't together, Rachel lied to him. She had been lying this whole time. "You are a brotherhood, just like the police. You refuse to believe one of your brothers is a killer or is hiding a killer's identity."
"Or me," he said. "Am I on your list of dirty FBI agents? Is that why you want out?"
"I'm sorry, Frank," she said softly. "I'm not at liberty to discuss it with you."
He gnashed his teeth at her. There was no better way to describe it than that. "Aspen Greene? Nona Pope? Was all that an act?"
"No," she said gently. "It wasn't. I still feel very responsible for Nona's death, and I loved Aspen like a member of my family. The guilt I feel is eating at me. Along with-"
He raised his hand in an effort to quiet her. He was clearly not interested in hearing anything else she had to say. "Your short list, Rachel. Name who is on your list of dirty agents," he demanded.
"Again, Frank. I cannot discuss that information with you."
Donovan focused his dark eyes on her. Murder was written in them. "Fuck you," he said bitterly.
He didn't speak to her as he quietly dug out his cuff key. He released her from her steel bonds. When it was done, he stood back with his hands on his hips.
"I suppose that is my cue to leave?" She was trying her best to look up at him, to make him took at her. He didn't.
She didn't move. She stayed seated on the bed, her eyes focused on his face. He didn't want to say anything else to her tonight. Not until he calmed down. She was right, murder was in his eyes. "Get out," he finally said.
Rachel stood to face him. "You asked. I told you. I'm sorry it wasn't what you wanted to hear."
He said nothing else. She shook her head, muttered 'okay,' and stepped out into the night air. Eyes watched her, following her progress from Frank Donovan's room back to hers several yards away. The person standing back watching wondered vaguely if something needed to be done about Rachel Sloane now or later. It possibly wasn't a good idea for now. There was too much heat. Too much to lose. There was work to be done, but it could be completed later.
The agents packed up their equipment and themselves. It was time to leave Springville, time to get back to Miami. The trip wasn't a fruitless venture. They gathered the information they needed, taking it back with them. Detective Sumner had been notified earlier that his office no longer had jurisdiction. As his lone CSI tech predicted, the news didn't sit well with him. It mattered little to any of them, especially Frank Donovan.
He had slept poorly the night before. His conversation with Rachel made his stomach ache. It had nothing to do with the half hearted punch of hers to his gut. It had everything to do with her confession. He certainly didn't know if he believed her or not. He knew he would ask the upper echelon if this was true. Would he get answers? He didn't know. Frank Donovan wasn't one to let things rest when they were bothering him. This was more or less eating away at his soul. What bothered him more was Rachel's assumption that someone in the FBI was possibly connected to the murders. He couldn't forget the words of Violet Moyer or his own suspicions that it was a duo, one who might know something about the law. Yet, it was patently ludicrous that someone attached to the agency had anything to do with it.
Donovan sat as far back in the seat as he could. Hurtz was behind the wheel this morning. For once, he was grateful to allow someone else to drive. Before closing his eyes, he looked at Ashcroft. He wasn't acknowledging Donovan's existence whatsoever. He sat in his own little world, gazing at the screen of his laptop. Next, he glanced at Lily. She appeared tired and dejected. She seemed to be reviewing the same set of notes over and over again. She seemed to be going out of her way not to look at Ashcroft. Something was obviously going on. Did he want to know? Dare he ask? His eyes settled on Ashcroft again. From his seat, he could only see the side of his face. Donovan wondered if he knew about Rachel's status. He was tempted to bring it up, because he wanted to know what the hell was going on.
Instead, he closed his eyes. There was no way he should be sleeping on duty, but it was a long way back to Miami. He hadn't gotten much sleep. The simple fact was, he was going to take a nap. If any of the others didn't like it, he didn't care. Within moments of closing his eyes, he fell into a sound sleep. He was plagued by dreams he couldn't remember upon waking. It made him feel odd, it made him feel as if something was wrong, out of place. Frank Donovan was not a superstitious man. Be that as it may, he felt a wave of something that could best be described as a panicked nausea. There was something coming, something that none of them would like.
As soon as the group of agents had time to get some sleep and clean up, they were required to meet at the office for the strategy session regarding their decoy operation. Earlier that day, Donovan had heard from his friend, Duane, who agreed to let the agents use his UC business for their operation. However, no one else would know about Duane's DEA ties. They agreed that it would be the best thing to allow Hurtz and Lockwood to pose as gambling agents during one of the kick boxing matches. Donovan would assume the identity of a homeless man on the side street near Duane's place of business. Ashcroft would monitor them from a surveillance van parked a few blocks down. Lily, of course, would be the bait.
Just before they separated to complete the mission, Donovan and Lily shared an awkward moment at the office. She stood in the conference room wearing a long, jet black wig, a sleeveless black dress that left little to the imagination, and heels that elevated her height approximately five inches. She stared curiously at Donovan dressed down in a torn wind breaker jacket, oversized white tee-shirt, shapeless black pants, and a dark wool cap on his head. He looked quite interesting like that. He had forgone his shaving ritual for the day and had a dark shadow of a beard sprouting from his cheeks, leading down his neck. He laughingly told her once that one day of going without a shave would leave him hairy and unkempt. He certainly wasn't kidding.
"Wow," she said with a tired smile. "You look like shit."
"Thanks," he said. "I accomplished my mission. You, on the other hand, seem completely opposite of who you really are."
"That's me, always on the make."
Lily had spoken her last words in a joking tone, but it certainly didn't come out that way. She wanted to open her mouth and come clean about her sleazy encounters with Jack Ashcroft. The words never made it out of her throat. If he didn't want her before, he certainly wouldn't want her now whenever that information made it up to the surface. It was only a matter of time. She knew Ashcroft wanted to tell him that he was sleeping with her. They planned it, to get their own set of at bats.
"Before we leave, Lily, I just want to remind you to be careful out there."
She smiled sadly his way. He said the same words to each of the other agents as they left. If she hadn't already heard them, she might have thought he actually cared about her. "Thanks. Same to you. I think it's time for me to watch my first kick boxing match."
Donovan shambled down Spicer Avenue, leaning heavily on a warped shopping cart he had found a few blocks away down a deserted alley. He pushed it forward, mumbling to himself, fully amercing himself in his role. Every now and again, he would pull out a clear bottle of liquid, taking long drinks from it. It was only water inside, but he stumbled around as if he were drinking hundred proof moonshine. The street leading to Duane's ring was lit up for a mile or more. It was always like this on the nights the fighters came to prove who was best. He moved forward slowly, yelling back at anyone who threw obscenities his way. Although the untrained eye might believe he was a homeless drunk, he, of course, knew better. His eyes, squinting dramatically, were sharp. He was aware of everyone and everything.
Inside the sprawling building, Hurtz and Lockwood sat in prime seats close to the ring. They placed bets and yelled along with everyone else, cheering their favorite fighters along. They seemed completely focused on the fight. They weren't. Lily paraded around the ring, snaking in and out of rows of testosterone filled men. Some leered her way, others tried touching her. She cursed at them in Spanish, slapping hands, winking where it was warranted. Although her wire was well hidden, it was irritating all the same. Wonder bras and super spy equipment did not mix. She ignored the pinching it gave her boobs and moved on, making her rounds. Watching for someone she didn't know, waiting for someone to abduct her.
Outside in the van, Ashcroft could hear everything going on. Every now and again, the agents checked in with their own versions of codes they selected. Donovan's was 'vodka is my friend,' Hurtz shouted 'eat me, beat me,' Lockwood was fond of 'slam him, Dakota,' and Lily chose 'too hot to trot with you tonight.' Her trouble code was '411, call 911.' So far, she hadn't had to use it. Ashcroft kept sharp, practicing a quiet vigil, while they waited. Surveillance was never an exciting option, but the only trick that helped them in the long run. All hoped it would not be a fruitless venture.
One thing was certain. The pair of killers who were infamously dubbed TSK thought it was quite funny how utterly predictable the FBI were. The only way they would get caught, was if they wanted to be caught. It was as simple as that. Earlier in the day, Holly and Lincoln met to discuss what they wanted to do next. Nona Pope's death had sent shockwaves down the wire. Her people were incensed, threatening to sue the FBI for allowing her to be abducted. It was fun watching the press, hearing the news, listening to the havoc they wreaked. What wasn't fun was the fact that they needed a new victim. Lincoln, although pleased with how they handled Nona Pope, was already bored with celebrities. He wanted to do something else. He wanted to dip into a pool they, as of yet, hadn't touched. Who would be next? They didn't know, but they had their eyes on a couple of options. Holly wanted to follow the agents, watch them work, but Lincoln did not want that. He wanted to let them crawl around, searching. It was all great fun.
Another incident earlier had almost put a kink in the chain. Just before Ashcroft left home to meet with the other agents, he went back home to pack more clothing. He fully didn't intend on staying with Rachel another day. He was irritated to find her at home when he arrived. Didn't she have a job? Didn't she have something else to do? She watched him solemnly as he took down his big suitcase. At that, she knew he was finally going to leave.
She needed to speak to him about a couple of things. One, of course, was her 'other' job, the one she had confessed about to Donovan earlier. The other would just have to wait. The instant she saw him dragging down his big suitcase, she understood he meant business. Her news would have to wait. She wanted to talk him out of it, but knew she wouldn't.
"So, it's like that?" She asked quietly.
Ashcroft didn't answer her for a very long time. She insisted on following him into the bedroom while he packed. He hated when she shadowed him like that. He packed slowly, pressing his lips into a grim line while he worked. He wanted to be safely packed before he blurt his news. It appeared as if he would have to say something before he was ready to leave. He hadn't planned it that way. Neither of them had.
"I suppose it is," he said without looking at her. "I don't care that you're not fucking him, Rachel. I care that you lied about fucking him in the past. Every time I turned around the other night, you were together. What am I supposed to think?"
"I won't stand in your way, Jack. Especially if you are set to leave. I would like to talk to you first. I have something to tell you."
He turned to look at her. She was dressed in blue jeans and a white sweater. She looked sexy as hell. Any other time, he might have made up with her, worked it out. This wasn't one of those times. "I have something to tell you, too," he said, his onyx eyes twinkling.
She nodded. "Okay. Can we sit down and do this? I don't want to speak to you while you're throwing your clothes into a suitcase."
He laughed and shook his head. "Rachel, this isn't a bull session we're going to have. Forget that." He stopped packing long enough to gaze at her wonderingly. "I'm taking a small break, babe. Just for you. I ask that you let me go first. Is that okay?"
Rachel sighed heavily and clasped her hands together. Her palms were sweaty, she was nervous, and sick at her stomach. She hoped he would suggest she go first, but if he was willing to talk to her, she would give him the opportunity to speak. She only hoped he would decide to stay. "It's fine with me, Jack. Go ahead. You first."
"Awesome." He scratched his head distractedly. "We're through, Rachel. I've been sleeping with Lily Wells the last few days." Her face whitened as the light died in her eyes. Her hopes of reconciliation dashed. "Yeah, babe. That's right."
"She-she is with Frank?"
"Nope, not anymore," he said with a gleam of light in his eyes. For him, it was purely hilarious. For her, it was anything but that. "She's with me. When we went out to Favron Resort, we really hit it off. Lots of people who share something in common do hit it off. I meant to tell you over the phone. I simply thought it would sound better in person. Does it?"
Her hand went to her abdomen. Oh yes. She would definitely have to throw up after this conversation. "How could you be such a cruel ass," she stated incredulously.
"What's cruel about it, Rachel? It couldn't be any more cruel than how I found out about you and Donovan, could it?"
Rachel bit down hard on her lip. She could taste blood. "Good luck."
She turned away from him, barely making it out of the bedroom. Seconds later, he heard her crashing into the bathroom the farthest from the master. He imagined that as her actions indicated, she was being sick right at that moment. He didn't know how he felt about it. He was bitter. The best way to deal with bitterness was revenge. He wondered how Donovan would take the news once he found out?
An hour later, Rachel appeared at FBI headquarters, in a different building than where the UC unit was housed. She fully intended to resign her position, focusing exclusively on law. She was finished with it. Starting today. However, her superiors refused to accept her resignation. They had given her this case. They would not release her until it was closed.
Disappointed, Rachel left the office. She stood on the city street across from the building. She wondered what she should do next. She walked for two blocks before it hit her. She would solve the case, she would put away the agents who tainted the TSK murders. She had her suspects. She would put them away or die trying. She had no way of knowing she was being watched. She had no way of knowing her name was put on a short list. It wasn't a list like that Donovan demanded to know. It was a victim list. A target was on her back, one she had no way of knowing was there.