The Fugitive's Secret Child. Geri Krotow
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was still alive.
She headed east, called her boss and refused to look her passenger in the eye. She gripped the wheel, waiting for Corey to pick up.
“Trina, why the freak haven’t you checked in?” Corey Blumenthal’s voice rumbled in her earpiece. She couldn’t use the speakerphone, not with an unknown in the back seat, no matter that he was probably a fellow LEA agent or officer.
And he wasn’t unknown, but a freaking practical ghost.
“Handling things. I’m safe. I should be in Harrisburg in about two hours or so. I’ve got Rob Bristol with me.”
“Thank God! We’ve got reports that the warehouse you went to had an event. Where are you?” Her boss’s voice remained professional, but she heard the concern in it.
She gave him her coordinates so that he could confirm her GPS unit was working. “I’m within two and a half hours of base. Unless you tell me to go elsewhere.” The puppy chose that time to bark. Of course.
“What the hell is that?”
“A dog. He wouldn’t stop following me.”
“You’re a US marshal, Lopez, not a dogcatcher.”
“Yes, sir.” She and Corey were on first-name basis, but she liked to rankle him by reminding him he was two decades older.
“So, you have Bristol. Well done. Just to be safe, describe him to me.”
What the hell? He never questioned her like this.
She looked in the rearview mirror as she drove, catching quick looks at Justin—God, it was Justin—but not enough to get them in an accident.
“Shaved crew cut, blondish, graying scruff on his chin, dark eyes, well, eye—one of them is swollen shut—about six feet, maybe two hundred, two-twenty.” And all of it hard muscle, if he was anything like he’d been when they’d made love under the desert stars, making the baby she’d raised on her own.
“Lopez. What about ID?” Corey’s impatience bristled more than usual because she got it—she was annoyed, too.
“Not possible. I asked. No ID, no papers on him. Not saying who he’s with.” Her fingers betrayed her as she spoke, burning with the memory of patting him down—there’d been nothing under his clothing except hard, sinewy male body. Justin’s body.
“Ask him.” Her boss’s voice shook her from her lust.
“He claims he’s an agent of some type. I trusted my gut. He’s been beat to hell by the ROC members.”
“Robert Bristol. TH.” Her fugitive croaked out his name again but this time added the “TH.” Trina locked gazes with him in the rearview mirror, fighting the urge to slam the car to a stop, get out and pull him out to get to the bottom of his identity.
“He says his name is Robert Bristol, TH, whatever the hell that means.”
Was that a sparkle of glee, amusement or demonic intention in his good eye?
“That’s all the identification we need. You’ve got the right man, Trina. Bring him in.” Corey paused, the line crackling in her earbud. “Well done, Trina.”
“Yes, sir.” She finished her conversation with Corey and turned her attention to her passenger.
“That’s not your name and we both know it. Where the hell have you been?” Trina wasn’t playing his game any longer. The initial shock was wearing thin and she had to know whom she was transporting back to headquarters, at least, whoever he used to be. Before he called himself Robert Bristol.
“Please keep your eyes on the road, Marshal Lopez.”
“Shut the hell up.” Backed into an emotional corner, she relied on good old sailor-speak.
“Trina, what the hell is going on out there? Are you okay?” Corey’s concerned voice filled her ear. She’d neglected to disconnect. Just great.
“I’m okay, boss. We’re having a little ‘whose LEA is bigger’ contest, that’s all.”
This time she made sure to disconnect.
* * *
“Damn it!” Trina slammed her palms on the steering wheel of the small economy car. A cheap rental, judging from the clean smell of the upholstery and lack of air-conditioning. At least she’d opened the windows and let the clean air stream in. “Want to explain why your name is Rob Bristol these days?”
“Self-preservation.”
He liked the way her gray eyes looked almost black each time she glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Her hair was escaping the ponytail holder, and long, wavy wisps floated around her as the air blew in through the front two windows she’d lowered halfway.
He couldn’t help it; he laughed. And then groaned.
“Are you in pain?” Her tough countenance fled. Did she care if he suffered? It could be a good sign if she did.
He shook his head. Nope, couldn’t go there. Trina was married, and he had to gain closure with her for their time in the desert. Nothing more. Achieve point A, move to B.
“Stop.” He choked out the word.
“I can’t stop—we have to make it to Harrisburg.” Same tiny lines between her brows when she frowned, if a bit deeper and definite. The years had been tough on each of them, it appeared.
“No, I mean, stop making me laugh. It hurts my ribs.”
“It’s going to hurt a lot more if you don’t start talking. What were you doing in that warehouse? Did you lie to me about working for the government? Do you work for ROC?”
“Hell no. I was trying to take Vasin out.” The words escaped and he realized he had to reel them back in, but couldn’t. He’d never let classified information spill before, no matter how much pain he was in.
“Take Yuri Vasin, second to only Dima Ivanov, out? What’s your definition of ‘out,’ by the way?”
“Actually, it turns out I had to take out Vasin first. And before you get upset, know that he’s under a huge metal shelf sucking in tear gas. He’s as good as caught. The local authorities will have no problem apprehending him. Ivanov remains unseen and at large, but I’d bet my life he’s near the warehouse, if not in it.” She had to know about the basements and concealed structures-within-structures that ROC was famous for. Nothing about that was classified.
“Well, that’s reassuring.” Her sarcasm tore at him, and he reassessed his initial appraisal of US Marshal Trina Lopez. Or rather, added to it. She’d come a long way from the serious but always chipper Navy pilot he’d known. She was still spot-on with her job, but her demeanor was more sober. Wiser. She hadn’t made a misstep when she’d taken him into pseudo custody—she’d hedged her bets, in fact. As a well-trained, intelligent US marshal would do. The few he’d worked with over the years had been all business, the epitome of professional. Trina proved no exception.
No other US marshal had been the love of his life, however. And not one of them had thought he was dead for the past five years, come back to life as if in a dream.
More like a nightmare. Yeah, he supposed he was Trina’s worst nightmare, in many ways.
That made him laugh again. Ouch.
Freakin’ ribs.
* * *
Trina’s deep shock at seeing Justin alive wasn’t going to dissipate anytime soon, but she had to take care of what was in front of her nose. She was concerned about his injuries, wondering if he was internally bleeding as they sped across the state.
She sighed and focused on a few deep, calming breaths as she drove, certain they’d left the criminals behind them. She didn’t want to