CHAPTER 14
Honeytrap

Grey dropped her travel bags as the condo door shut behind her. She went through the ritual of throwing her keys onto the vanity, but caught her attention drifting toward the balcony doors.

There was nothing there but skyline drenched in dusk.

Which was what was supposed be there. Except her heart still hammered in her chest.

She'd decided her handler's little B&E last week had meant nothing to her. She couldn't let it mean anything. She couldn't let herself feel intimidated or scared. It was her home, her supposed refuge. The one place where she could truly be herself—no pretences, no defences, no lies.

Except she was a fool to let herself think that way. Neither her handler nor their superiors understood such first world sentiments. And how could she expect them to understand? They'd all lost their home in a way, so why the hell would they respect hers? The condo was a lie, like so much of her life. Another piece of her grand American deception.

She walked toward the balcony doors, stilettos clicking with each step. Standing by the glass, she felt the press of the December cold. Below, streetlights flickered on one by one. Garish artificial trees flared to life, accompanied by blinding seasonal billboards depicting genetically engineered turkeys and holiday-flavoured Cram. The mere sight left a foul taste in her mouth.

Her intercom buzzed.

At least she assumed it was the intercom. It had only rang once before, years ago, after she'd bought the place.

She peered at it over her shoulder, thinking it likely to be a mistake. A delivery boy who called the wrong unit, a child bashing buttons blindly. But it continued to buzz, again and again, unrelenting.

She walked over and fumbled with the buttons.

"Hello?"

"You are a hard woman to track down, Lieutenant."

Grey paled.

"How did you get this address?"

He laughed. "I'd be happy to regale you with the tale, but I'm kinda freezing my ass off out here."

She ran her tongue across her teeth. She didn't like it. Didn't want him there. Didn't want anyone there. It was safer that way, for her and for others. That was her rationale at least.

"Come on, Lieutenant. I think my hands are turning blue."

She tried to run through her options, but her brain was foggy. She hadn't slept in two days. That, and her diet had only consisted of hotel coffee, red wine, and adrenaline since Friday. She was lucky to still be awake, let alone thinking.

There was the cafe across the street—no, too close to home. The restaurant—no, closed by now on a Sunday. The park—too cold, too many dark places to spy from. The lobby—too many gossipy neighbours and curious eyes. Then there was the security cameras. And where the fuck was her audio jammer?

She closed her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose.

What a goddamn mess.

"Seventeenth floor. Unit at the end of the hall."

She buzzed him in.

She didn't bother with the door or her bags. Instead she walked to the bar and retrieved a tumbler and a bottle of rye. She'd never been a Scotch girl, much to her father's dismay. Didn't fancy the smokey aftertaste. Honestly, if she wanted her breath to reek of ashtray, she'd smoke a cigarette. She didn't want it from her whiskey.

She'd had a boyfriend back in New York, some stockbroker with old money and zero common sense, who once accused her of having "common tastes", like he thought it was an insult. He'd ply her with rare cask Macallan and hors d'âge cognac whilst in public, determined to have her conform to his gentry tastes. Not that he ever liked what he consumed. She'd seen how his throat struggled to swallow the $1000 swill that he forced past his lips. Another hypocrite, like so many of his ilk. All appearances and lies without an ounce of substance.

Back then, she couldn't conceptualize denying herself simple pleasures for fear of social repercussion. She'd thought it false and pathetic. A smirk pulled at her mouth. How things had changed.

Everything she did now was through the guise of conforming to norms and expectations. Act a certain way, don't draw suspicion, be the person they wanted her to be, the person they needed her to be. Half the time, she couldn't even remember who she was before all this. But she knew she liked rye. That was something at least. It had to be if she wanted to stay sane.

A rapping sounded as she poured herself a dram. She knocked it back before telling him the door was open.

From her periphery, she could see the Sergeant tentatively step over her luggage, eyes peering from side to side in the near-dark. She filled her glass halfway.

"How do you like your whiskey, Sergeant?"

"I don't drink."

She simpered. "We both know that's a lie. So let's try that again."

She could all but hear him kiss his teeth. Even with her back turned, she could sense his impatience. He'd tried to mask it earlier with humour, but that would only last so long. He had wanted her to be at the door when it opened, wanted to fly into whatever conversation or concern had brought him there. But that would be predictable and Grey wasn't having it. If they were to converse, it was to be on her terms.

"Neat," he finally replied, voice terse.

She knew that of course. Strange the things that were recorded in a soldier's personnel file. She passed him his drink and lightly clanked her glass against his before wandering toward the lounge.

Her skirt travelled up her thighs as she crossed her legs, skin sticking to the cool leather of the sofa. She rolled her neck as the rye brought some heat to her throat. She relished in the feeling as it burned its way down, the taste and sensation a perfect dose of pleasurable pain.

The Sergeant took a seat across from her, blue eyes questioning and muscles tense.

"Where have you been?"

She cocked a brow. "That's funny. I can't remember hiring you as my personal assistant or chauffeur. So I'm not sure why my whereabouts are any concern of yours."

She watched the irritation creep up his neck.

"It's been a week, Grey. A week since I last heard from you, a week since—"

"Are you really that impatient? Or is this inexperience I'm sensing?"

Sergeant Anders balked. "What are you—"

"Doing? Implying?" She leaned forward. "This isn't a quick and dirty operation, Sergeant. I can't snap my fingers and piece it all together. Not with my superiors breathing down my neck and Cantrell constantly testing my so-called allegiance to the goddamn hierarchy of corruption." She snapped her jaw shut, realizing her mistake.

She shouldn't had said that last bit. She shouldn't had done a lot of things granted, the first of which was allowing herself to get tangled up in the Sergeant's little detective game. But it was too late for that now. It was too late for a lot of things.

Grey took another swig.

"My point," she said, "is that this is going to take time. And as long as Walsh keeps his mouth shut and James stays in a coma, time is one thing we have."

His eyes darkened. "Except this doesn't feel like a we, Lieutenant. You promised to help me and then nothing. No meetings, no phone calls, no letters. What am I supposed to do with that? Sit and stew in my own anxiety?"

"I told you that you needed to trust me."

He laughed. "Trust. Right. Well, I tried that, telling myself you'd be in touch. Trust her, Nate. Sure, she has the reputation of a three-headed snake, but I'm sure she's not half as venomous as everyone says. Except you never did get in touch, and then I call your office and they tell me you aren't even in the goddamn state. So, yeah, that line isn't going to work, Lieutenant. Not this time."

He was enticing when he was angry, she realized. Muscles strained against his clothes, blue eyes pale, pupils dilated, handsome jaw taunt. She imagined running her fingertips across his scars, digging her nails into his back. A shiver ran from her groin to her navel and she couldn't help but smile.

"Whitehorse."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"The Yukon."

"I'm sorry, I don't—"

"You asked me to find out where your service records say you were deployed from 2072 to 2074. It was Whitehorse. Natural resources defence taskforce. Your records state you frequently had run-ins with 'environmental terrorists' attempting to sabotage the pipeline. I'm assuming that's the politically correct term for Canadian nationals displeased with Americans syphoning their oil. You should be pleased—you even got two commendations for your service, you big hero you." She took a sip from her glass.

He just stared. "What—how… How did you—"

"A copy of the file is in my bag if you don't believe me."

"I believe you, I'm just…" He pressed a hand to his eyes before ranking it up his forehead and through his hair. By the time he looked up, Grey was standing over him, holding a brown file folder at eye level. He tentatively took it, the pages all but spilling onto his lap. Pages of lies. Operations he never ran, soldiers he never commanded, people he never killed. His stomach twisted and a cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck.

"Where did you get this?"

Grey had returned to her seat, legs again crossed and thighs left exposed. Her empty tumbler dangled from her manicured grip. Her nails were shorter than he remembered, cut back to the quick.

She gave the slightest shrug to his question. "From the National Archives, obviously."

He closed the file folder only to see the Archives' embossed emblem.

"You know what I mean," he said. "I doubt even you can walk in and request my service records."

He was wrong about that. Grey could have easily submitted a request and had the files mailed to Boston, but that would have left a paper trail. First she'd toyed with forging a requisition form from another judge advocate stationed in the Boston office, but it still seemed too close to home. Too reckless. She was the one tied to Sergeant Anders, after all. If something went wrong, all eyes would turn to her, even if the paperwork implicated another lawyer. They all knew how easy it was to frame someone; they did it all the time.

No, Grey had to be smarter than that. So she'd booked a return trip to New York under her own name, casually mentioning to a paralegal that she was visiting her family for the weekend. And she got on that train, but after an hour in Grand Central, she disappeared into a Fallon's dressing room and traded her designer pencil skirt and stilettos for combat boots, jeans, and a beret. She'd then bought a ticket to DC with cash and didn't return to NYC until an hour before her return train to Boston, two days later.

"You'd be surprised what I can do, Sergeant, when I put my mind to it," she said with a purr.

"I'm serious, Lieutenant. How did you get this?"

The how wasn't really important though, not to him. The crux of it was that he thought her an amateur. Sure, she was cunning, but she was still young. Still naive. Still able to make a crucial mistake. Her lips twitched. If only he knew who she really was. What she really was.

"I have my ways," she replied. "Rest assured in that."

"Is there any possible way that—"

He rambled through a dozen queries, pace fuelled by anxiety. She'd produced results and all his mind could fathom was the million ways in which their investigation could come back to bite them in the ass. A million ways in which she could have fucked up. Except she hadn't fucked up, and they hadn't even accomplished anything yet. Grey could only wonder if the Sergeant was up to this supposed investigation. How would he react when they actually had tangible evidence? When they were eventually confronted with an inevitable truth? When they actually spoke to Walsh?

She sighed. She was too tired for this.

"If anyone goes snooping, the file was copied by a nobody intern who will have moved onto another dead-end gig five-times over by the time the Archives notices it. If they notice it. And before you ask, the intern has no ties to me or anyone I know. Satisfied?"

Grey had spent all of Friday lingering in a cafe in front of the National Archives, face buried in a scarf, black hair tucked up into the confines of her beret. She'd watched the staff come and go, ordering pastries and coffee, credentials proudly hung from skinny necks, and finally she'd picked her mark. She'd followed from afar that night. From work to supermarket to home to the speakeasy, if that's what it could be called. Such a pathetic creature she'd chosen, so desperate to be wanted, to be loved. They made it all the easier; it was practically bittersweet.

The Sergeant was quiet for a moment, considering. Finally he moved, walking towards her, folder in hand.

"I could have helped you, you know. All you had to do was ask."

Grey's eyes scrolled from the file to his face.

"You weren't exactly her type."

"What?"

Grey smiled as she lightly plucked the folder from his hand.

"The intern," she said. "You weren't her type."

Grey had approached the girl on Saturday night. The intern had sat at the end of the bar, her unremarkable face hidden behind chunky glasses and frizzy waves. Her eyes had dashed from side to side, watching the other women operate, how they'd lean into one another, hands flirting with exposed skin, laughs being kissed into long, luscious necks. Grey could see how the girl squirmed in the cool confines of the dark, so desperate to be wanted and touched, yet so likely to be left alone.

Grey didn't approach her directly. That would have been suspicious. No, she sat at the bar and hollered for the bartender, quibbling over drink prices and ordering the cheapest wine on the menu. She'd laid a beat-up thrift store camera on the bar and ran her hands through her dirty blonde wig. She had looked the part of bohemian arts major, a mix of cultured and wild. She'd casually brought the intern into her conversations, asking her about modern art and the state of politics. The girl was so desperate to be acknowledged, she never noticed as Grey kept plying her with drinks, kept inching her stool closer. All it took was for Grey to brush the girl's hair from her face and she knew she was hers.

Hands had groped and mouths hungered as they left the speakeasy. Names were never exchanged. They'd flagged down a cab, hands clutching at each other's clothes with anticipation as the driver looked on. The girl was desperate, all but tearing Grey's bohemian rags from her frame as they entered the rundown studio apartment. A lamp broke as they tumbled through the door, but the intern didn't seem to care as she led Grey to the bed.

They'd fucked until morning, orgasms paced with boxed wine and ice water. As the sun began to rise, Grey reached into her bag and dropped a benzo into the intern's drink. She was out in minutes, naked body tangled in sweat-soaked sheets.

Grey had fought the urge to shower, the intern's sickly scent of old books and lavender enough to make her want to hurl. She'd forced herself into the girl's drab clothes and strung her stolen credentials around her neck. The security guard never bothered to check Grey's pass or photo, not at 7 AM. He ushered her into the Archives without a care.

In less than an hour, Grey had copied the file, returned to the girl's studio, changed, and left a note thanking her for the hospitality. The intern would wake up groggy, sore, and none the wiser. It was better that way, for both of them.

The Sergeant's lips twitched into a smile. "I'm not sure if I'm incredibly turned on right now or incredibly disappointed."

"Both are good," Grey purred in reply, pushing herself to her feet. She leaned into the Sergeant's ear, lips tracing the bend in his cartilage and hand sliding down the inside of his thigh. "I prefer to keep a man on edge."

He grasped her wrist as she attempted to move away. His eyes memorized the curve of her lip, mouth inching toward her face. She imagined the press of his lips, the quiver of his body against her. Except she turned her head at the last minute, letting him bury his face in her hair. The illusion broke.

She cleared her throat and he release her wrist. Stepping away, she paced the lounge, tapping the file against her leg.

"You aren't the only one, you know. Walsh, James—their records also show a series of obscure squad names and deployment zones. Alaska, Nevada, even Marrakesh. Someone got sloppy though, because they didn't match the assignments to Fox Company's movements for those years. Granted I assume they didn't think anyone would look too closely at individual soldiers' files." She continued to tap the papers.

"So what's our next move?"

That was a good question. Grey'd had a million thoughts as she'd read the files on the train. Why was there a cover-up? Who was behind the cover-up? And what did this have to do with the attempted murder? Was Walsh being framed? If so, why? And by whom? Then there was the possibility that the fake files were unrelated to the shooting. Sure, it was unlikely, but maybe Walsh did attack his former squad mate. But even if he did, why? And why now, two years after their last tour together?

"Do you like pizza?"

The Sergeant faltered. "What?"

"I'm starved and I can't think when I'm hungry. So do you like pizza?"

"Sure?"

"That didn't sound very convincing."

He laughed. "Then yes, ma'am."

"What did I tell you about calling me ma'am?"

"Hmm, that it got you all hot and bothered?"

Grey rolled her eyes. "Keep this up and I'll order pineapple on the pizza."

"I'm allergic to pineapple."

"I know," she teased.

He gave her a look. "You're scary, you know that, right?"

She cast him a flirty smile. "You have no idea."

Grey continued to pace after placing the order, tapping the file with each step. She and the Sergeant spitballed theories and ideas. He told her about some of the operations his squad participated in whilst in Anchorage. On the whole, nothing stood out as noteworthy. There was the occasional civilian casualty, the occasional barracks brawl. But never with James or Walsh. From the stories told, those two were upstanding soldiers and good friends; doling out appropriate amounts of support and light touch hazing. They had no conflicts with other staff, gave no backtalk to their commander officer. They were practically benign.

As the buzzer rang for the second time that evening, Grey could feel her stomach churning with anticipation. She jumped to her feet, papers scattering, to wait by the door for their pizza.

"What I don't get," she said, "is how Walsh was identified as the prime suspect. From the files I've—let's say—borrowed from Mitchell, there's no indication of where Walsh's name came from. It just appeared two weeks ago, like it was plucked from thin air. So is someone in the organization trying to frame him, or did we get an anonymous tip along the way? And if we did get a tip, when did it come in, and where did it come in from?"

The delivery man's knock cut her thoughts short. She practically yanked the pizza box from his hand and threw a hundred dollar bill at him. Kicking the door shut, she walked back towards the Sergeant whilst shoving a slice of pepperoni into her mouth. If the Sergeant wanted to complain about her manners, he could go find himself another devious JAG Corps officer.

His expression wasn't one of hunger though. It was one of query, one of hesitation.

It stopped her in her tracks.

"You… don't know," he said tentatively.

She narrowed her gaze. "I don't know what?"

"Walsh, he…" Sergeant Anders sighed and raked a hand back through his hair. "An argument was overheard at Fort Hagen three days before the shooting. James had been running the trails behind the base. I'm not sure if Walsh ran into him or confronted him, but heated words were exchanged, and James then threw Walsh to the ground before running back to the Fort."

Grey swallowed her food, appetite suddenly gone. "And how do you know about this?"

"Because I'm the one that overheard them." Nate looked up at her, face gaunt and blue eyes conflicted. "I'm the one that gave Walsh to Lieutenant Mitchell."