White Heat. Brenda Novak
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everywhere, but he stopped her.
“Leave it behind.”
“That’s like asking me to leave my gun!”
“No, it’s not. Where we’re going, there probably won’t be Internet service. And when we need a computer, we can use mine.”
“What about other gear?”
He motioned toward the truck. “I’ve got everything we might need.”
“Fine,” she muttered, and he put her bag in the truck while she locked the house.
Rachel was seven years his junior, but today she looked even younger. With her hair pulled into a messy bun and minimal makeup, she could pass for twenty. Had he spotted her on the road, he might’ve mistaken her for a teenager heading down to the beach.
But she wasn’t going to the beach. She was wearing his pretend wedding ring and packing a gun so Milt could thrust them both into the middle of a potentially dangerous situation.
“Why do you do it?” he asked as she climbed in.
She blinked. “You mean, the bag? I told you. I had to bring it. I didn’t have another one.”
“I’m not talking about your suitcase. Why are you in this business?”
She slammed the rusty door of his old truck. “It’s a living, isn’t it?”
A good living. They’d only have to devote ten years to their work to be set for life. But he knew Rachel’s involvement wasn’t entirely about the money. According to what he’d read in her file, and the bit of information she’d revealed, she’d had a difficult childhood with an overbearing father. That made him suspect her attraction to undercover work had something to do with slipping in and out of character, of being anyone she wanted to be except the child who’d known almost nothing of the real world until she was seventeen. She wasn’t comfortable in her own skin, didn’t know who she was or who she wanted to be.
“The danger doesn’t bother you?”
“No more than it bothers you.”
He almost told her to get out. She didn’t need to be mixed up in Ethan Wycliff’s twisted world. The auto accident involving Ethan’s former roommate had left skid marks suggesting he might’ve been run off the road. There were no witnesses to say if he’d swerved to avoid an animal or another car. So the possibility of murder was there. For all they knew, Ethan was as bad as Charles Manson, which made this assignment worse than usual. “Maybe we should try talking some sense into Milt,” he said, suddenly second-guessing his decision to comply with his boss’s orders.
She flashed him her wedding ring. “Too late. You already tried that, anyway. Let’s go.”
His thoughts gravitated to a former Department 6 employee. Enrico had lost his right eye when someone he knew in regular life happened upon him while he was on the job. After that friend inadvertently blew his cover, Enrico had been forced to fight for his life. Nate didn’t want something like that to happen again—to any member of his team, but especially one of the women.
“This could be unpredictable,” he warned.
“They’re all unpredictable.”
“You’re sure you’re up for it?”
“I’m positive.”
“You didn’t seem so certain when you called me a few hours ago.”
“How would you know? You didn’t give me a chance to talk.”
“I’m giving you a chance now.”
“Someone’s got to do this. Might as well be me.”
She was right. Someone had to do it. He doubted Milt would change his mind, anyway. As she’d just said, Nate had already argued with him about it, to no avail.
Ultimately, this was Milt’s decision. And Rachel’s. Not his.
Taking a deep breath, he backed down her long drive. She’d chosen this line of work, applied of her own free will, knowing full well the dangers she’d encounter. And she’d proven herself effective.
While he made the turn onto the winding road that would take them to the highway, she dug through her purse. He had no idea what she was searching for until he smelled the distinctive scent of fingernail polish.
“Hey, that stuff stinks,” he complained.
She pulled off her sandal and hugged her left knee to her chest so she could paint her toenails. “I need to get into character. Rachel Mott is the kind of woman who likes her nails a delicate pink.”
“How do you know?” he countered. “That wasn’t in the dossier.”
“There wasn’t much in the dossier. So I figure the role is subject to interpretation. I’ve got to sell it, make it real.” She moved to the next toenail. “And the way I picture her is sort of sweet and naive and madly in love with her nice but none-too-bright husband.”
He shot her a dark look. Where was she going with this? “Did you say ‘none-too-bright’?” he grumbled, but it was really the “madly in love” part that disturbed him. He didn’t want to get anything started.
“It’s just a role.”
“I don’t mind playing dumb as long as you remember I’m the boss here. Milt’s sending me with you for a reason.”
“I think Milt is sending us together because there’s safety in numbers, not because he expects you to exert your authority while we’re there.”
“He doesn’t need to specify that because I’m already your boss.”
“And I’d never question that.” She gave him a saccharine smile to take the edge off her sarcasm, and he seemed to accept the statement at face value.
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
“Back to that incomplete dossier.” She waved one hand rapidly over her toes. “What was Milt thinking, being so vague?”
“He said he didn’t have a lot of time. He thought we could finish strategizing today while we drove.”
“I’m glad to hear I’ll have some input, because we need to come up with ways to seem more like a real couple.”
What was she up to? He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her, speculating on what it could be. “Such as…”
“I don’t know. Something that makes it appear as if we’ve been together for more than, say…a day.”
He decided to go along with her. “Like what? Like…getting my name tattooed on your neck?”
She didn’t argue as he’d expected; she frowned in contemplation. “Exactly. Only…not on my neck. That’s too…overboard. But maybe my arm.”
“No way! I was joking, and you know it. There’s no telling how long we’ll be there. A fake tattoo might wash off.”
“Which is why it would have to be a real one. Right here.” She indicated her deltoid. “Nathan’s woman.”
She was pushing his buttons. After the way she’d avoided him the past several months, it seemed out of character, but now that they’d been forced into this situation, he wondered if she was overcompensating. “That might be just the thing,” he said, refusing to take the bait.
“As long as it’s designed to be turned into something else when this is all over,” she murmured. “I’ve been meaning to get one, anyway—maybe a skull to impress the drug dealers I usually work with.”
His name—turned into a skull? The kiss of death. The image hit far too close to home. But, of course, she wouldn’t know that. “Tattoos take time to ink and to heal. And they hurt. Are you sure you want to go through all that