Chapter 22
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When the evening ended, Dani was exhausted.
Jesse's constant presence by her side was as unsettling and as confusing as were his questions about why she'd saved his life. At least he'd stopped asking that. She didn't want to think it had been something as simple as she'd made him laugh once. She could never remember making any man laugh, not even Janssen. Yet the image of Jesse laughing at something she'd said refused to go away.
She felt light-headed. She could attribute that to the pain meds she was taking, or to the lingering memory of that word Jesse used or . . . two perfect kisses. Or maybe it was that moment they all witnessed.
After seeing Michael's reaction to the dessert Fiona made, Dani briefly lost control of her emotional equilibrium. Whatever that meant to them was something important.
They were standing at the counter, facing away from the table. They spoke quietly. Then he moved his arm around her and rested it on the counter, encompassing her, as he dropped his head to kiss her. Dani had held her breath, then the three of them who watched looked away, realizing they were privy to an unplanned, unexpected and extremely personal moment between a husband and a wife, something beyond waiting for an appropriate moment.
The first time she had encountered such intimacy between them had been purely by accident. This, tonight, was different because the resurgence of remembered pain she'd previously encountered had been irrevocably banished, somehow, by the man sitting next to her.
When Fiona brought the dessert to the table, Dani discovered she retained the presence of mind necessary to provide the breathing space they all needed. She could also see the moment had caught Sam off guard, because she'd seen the expression he'd hidden as he looked down to his hands.
The conversational balm of discussing an old Irish family recipe brought each of them back to center. Then, the reason for their meeting took precedence as Sam and Jesse explained what they had come to understand was the DEA's interest in Anson's operations.
By the time Michael added what he'd learned from listening to the tapes of Sizemore and Vaughn's conversations, it was very late or very early.
Using the wheelchair was annoying, but she admitted her need for it. She was supremely frustrated with the weakness in her arm and the loss of energy and strength. It was a struggle to do anything simple, from putting on a bra or a blouse, pulling up slacks, or anything else for that matter. She knew she'd need physical therapy and she wasn't comfortable asking for Jesse's help, but she wanted to.
Jesse wheeled her into his townhouse, locked the door, then pushed the wheelchair through the living area to the bedroom. He locked the wheels so she could push herself up with her good arm. But tonight, she didn't have the strength to do more than get about halfway up before sitting back down with a thump. He didn't give her a chance to try again. He just did what he'd done before and lifted her into his arms and carried her over to sit on the bed.
"I wish you'd stop doing this."
"You're healing. You need help."
She closed her eyes and felt tears seep out. Again. She was frustrated and her heart felt heavy when he touched her face and brushed her tears away. She couldn't decide if it was his kindness or his constancy that was affecting her so deeply.
A moment later, he pulled off her shoes, dropped them on the floor, resettled her on the bed and reached for the afghan. He clasped her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. He would have pulled away but she held his hand just a moment longer. A moment long enough to communicate her need for his comfort.
He turned off the light beside the bed, then left the room to turn off the light in the living area. A few minutes later, she felt the mattress depress as he joined her on the bed. He gently positioned her head on his shoulder with her good shoulder next to his chest, protecting the wounded side of her body. His arm lay over hers, his hand rested on hers.
When she felt him kiss her forehead, she realized it was a familiar sensation. He didn't say a thing, not a word. Neither did she. But that night, without request, she was given the flawless gift of being able to sleep in his arms. It was the most perfect, protected place she had ever been.
And Jesse, with his arms gently wrapped around the thin frame of this fragile, healing woman who had saved his life before taking up residence in his subliminal thought processes, calmed the inner voice that kept telling him he'd lost his mind.
They slept, fully clothed, in his bed, neither understanding the restorative power this night would have for the other's need to rest.
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"When did he call?" Fi asked as soon as Michael closed the door after Jesse helped Dani get situated in the wheelchair and pushed her toward his townhouse. Sam had left earlier.
She finished putting the dishes in the dishwasher, added detergent and closed the door to start the wash cycle.
"After our showers. You left to answer the door when Sam got here. Raines called and told me to report in person tomorrow. I'm supposed to meet with him, his friend and their directors at the DEA. I didn't say anything to Jess and Sam because it's . . . "
Fiona turned and studied him. "It's classified."
"Yeah."
She just realized her husband had broken a fundamental rule of clandestine operations. With her. Sam and Jesse were not being informed. She was. And yet he was behaving as if this was normal. Usual. It wasn't. Fiona was stunned by the gift of trust he had just given her.
"When do you leave?"
Michael straightened the chairs at the table and braced his arms against the back of one, studying the tiled top of the table. "0400. Anytime you mix arms with the DEA . . . "
Fiona shuddered. "Drugs, Michael. Anson is bad enough, but nothing connected to drugs can be good."
"I know."
That night, as they slept in each other's arms, the only thing that came between them was the arrival of a tiny tendril of fear.
Michael's internal alarm sounded much too early. Instead of silently leaving while she slept, something he had done too many times before, he kissed Fiona to wakefulness. When she was in prison, before he knew there would be a way out, he'd bargained with God, that if she returned to him, he'd never leave her like that again.
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Michael was not the sole passenger on the small private jet bound for Dulles.
A woman was already on board, dressed very much as he was in a grey suit appropriate for meeting the director of the agency that employed her. He'd almost forgotten what a beautiful woman she was. He smiled at her and said hello at the same time she did, but said nothing more after she silently cautioned him. They were being observed. She reached and squeezed his hand, then, curious, she turned it over and saw his wedding ring. She smiled again.
She returned to her seat, closed her eyes and napped.
Michael looked out the window. By the time they landed, he'd worked out a fairly plausible theory about who would be waiting, who would be involved, and some of his conjecture was confirmed when they were met and escorted to the DEA's Chantilly facility: Special Operations.
Michael's first meeting of the day included both the CIA and FBI directors and Raines and his FBI counterpart. Despite the collaborative tone, he had the clear impression he was being evaluated in the flesh, not the file. Their location could be considered neutral, but that seemed to simple an answer.
As the meeting progressed, he accounted for the twitch between his shoulders, the positive indicator that he had been thoroughly dissected and reassembled before the meeting had been called. He glanced at Raines' former partner, checked his deadpan expression and realized he'd recently had the a similar experience.
The directors left, apparently satisfied with what they'd seen.
Raines' former partner left.
Michael found himself wondering if he was being protected or incarcerated. Did the FBI work that differently with compromised personnel than the CIA?
Now only he and Raines remained in the conference room.
"We're waiting because?" Michael asked.
"The DEA has some trust issues with us," Raines replied.
Michael's laugh held a tinge of sarcasm. "You jest."
In regard to the DEA, the CIA had always operated on the theory that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, and if that meant helping supply a cartel with drugs or providing support for a drug dealer, that's what they did, if it meant gaining the intel they wanted. The results left the DEA with the logical and reasonable conclusion that the CIA worked against them. It was impossible to argue with historical fact. And, it did not create an atmosphere of trust.
The door opened and Michael's travel companion entered the room. Raines provided the formal introduction.
"Sophia Valdez, this is Michael Westen. I believe the two of you traveled together this morning."
She reached for his hand. "Yes, we did. Mr. Westen."
"Ms. Valdez."
"Like you," Raines said, "Ms. Valdez is stationed in Miami. Through an interagency agreement, you and Ms. Valdez will be operating as business associates looking for property to purchase in the Dominican Republic."
"Because?" Michael wondered.
Sophia supplied the answer. "Because the Sinaloa cartel is in the process of establishing a Caribbean trafficking route to Venezuela and Columbia, and they're using resources supplied by a black ops group you've been trying to take down. It's the group that's recently rebuilt its structure. We understand you were instrumental in taking down half of it a year ago; now we need your help on taking down this half. We have requested your assistance and that of your team," Sophia explained. "And your director has granted it."
Raines nodded. "DEA has the lead. We're providing support along with the FBI. Our directors have tasked us with making inter-agency cooperation something we can each can take pride in.
"The Sinaloa cartel." Michael felt his jaw clench. "The most powerful organized crime and drug trafficking organization in the world. That's perfect. Makes Anson look like a puppy dog."
"We don't give in to fear," Sophia added. "That's what my director says."
Michael held her gaze, and knew they needed a private conversation. He had made Sophia's acquaintance four years ago, when she asked for his help to get rid of a stalker, a stalker who was the number two in the Valdez organization at that time.
She'd been working undercover as a restaurant hostess for two years, building a case against Campos who ran the Miami operation, but her stalker's obsession with her was verging on a life or death situation, and she didn't have the normal avenues of assistance open to her without risking being pulled from the case she'd spent so long building.
A recently burned spy with a reputation for taking on the cartel was just who she needed. She'd tried to keep her true identity secret from him, but it didn't work. The successful plea she used for his help was that she'd been operating all alone.
To remove Raul, her stalker, they created a problem with his boss for him; Fiona had provided tactical support as a sniper and bomb maker, while Sam and Sophia created the perfect setup to remove him from Campos' office. To save himself, Raul turned on the organization and admitted guilt in exchange for lifetime protection within the penal system from cartel members.
Sophia had thanked Michael and they had agreed it was in each of their best interests to keep their relationship secret. And it had been. Until today.
They'd need to deal with this first. If she had feared a stalker, how would she deal with the Sinaloa cartel?
He hoped her director was right. That they did not give into fear. But sometimes, moving the opposite direction and living another day was a fair exchange for that.
Unaware of their prior relationship, Raines continued. "You're in the middle of a perfect storm, Westen. Between the new information supplied by the FBI, the trail of evidence Pearce's OMB insider threat reports uncovered, the restored information in the network concerning one of the principals of the group, the intel from Miami DEA sources on the arms facilities in Tampa and the one Pearce and Porter investigated, Sizemore and Vaughn's intel, we have everything we need to take them down."
"No, we don't. You've forgotten we don't have eyes on either Anson or Management at this time," Michael reminded him.
"We do," Sophia interjected.
Michael's gaze laser focused on Sophia. "Where?"
"Florida City, not far from Homestead," she said.
"We need to get him now."
Sophia looked down. "We are."
Raines broke in. "We've loaned Peterbaugh and Carnahan to the DEA; they're on site now."
So this was what cooperation looked like, he thought. His team members were reassigned without consultation or discussion. Sophia read Michael's appraisal of the situation accurately and looked away.
"Yeah, Raines," Michael agreed. "It is a perfect storm. But you can die on one of those."
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"Thank you."
"For?"
"Not blowing my cover. Telling them about the problem you fixed for me."
They were back at the airport, sitting in a small private lounge, waiting for the private jet that would take them back to Miami.
Michael scanned the waiting area. "You're welcome."
"We need to talk."
"Yes. But in Miami. Someplace secure."
"Yes."
"You're married now. I can't remember her name. Is she the woman who built the bomb and was your tactical support?"
"Yes."
When he didn't say more, she pressed on. "I know what you're thinking. That if I couldn't handle a stalker, how will I deal with anyone from the Sinaloa cartel?" her voice was almost a whisper now. "But I can. I can."
"Those people are serious, Sophia. Dangerous."
"I know. They almost killed my husband."
Michael turned and looked at her. "Is that your motivation?"
"Part of it."
"And the other part?"
"Drugs kill people."
He looked at her without expression. There was more to it than that. He'd stake his life on that. And, maybe, he had.