Conceal (Omega Sector #3) - Janie Crouch
CHAPTER ONE
Evan Karcz woke up the same way he had almost every day for the past year and a half: with Juliet Branson’s terrified sobs echoing through his dreams.
Evan didn’t jump out of bed and grab his Glock as he had in the early days. Nor did he have to rush to the bathroom before he lost the contents of his stomach.
Now he just breathed in and out slowly, calming his pounding heart, staring up at the ceiling. He threw the covers off his body in an effort to chill down, even though it was early spring and the temperatures were still cool here in southern Maryland, near Washington, DC. Evan wiped with his arm the small amount of sweat that beaded on his forehead.
He didn’t lie there long. It was early, not even close to 5:00 a.m., but the possibility of going back to sleep was pretty much nonexistent. He might as well get up and start moving. He slipped on shorts and sweats and packed a gym bag with clothes for the rest of his day.
He’d head in to Omega Sector Headquarters and get in a workout before work officially started. Exercise in order to exorcise, Evan thought, and smiled grimly. Anything would be better than staying in that big bed by himself with nothing surrounding him but his own guilt.
Given the day ahead and all it had in store, he shouldn’t be surprised that the dream had resurfaced with such vividness. Today he’d be unable to avoid seeing the subject of his troubled dreams—his ex-partner, Juliet Branson. Although avoid wasn’t really accurate. Evan never tried to avoid seeing Juliet; the opposite, in fact. He’d been trying to talk to her for eighteen months, with no real success. Today, Juliet would be unable to avoid seeing him.
Evan drove to Omega Headquarters, thankful that the early hour at least helped shorten the notoriously ugly commute. He pulled into the secure parking garage of the nondescript building that housed Omega Sector—a covert interagency task force made up of the best personnel the country had to offer. Evan had worked here for eight years, ever since his recruitment out of the FBI when he was twenty-seven.
The heaviness from this morning’s dream lingered as he walked through the doors of Omega’s main building. Strange how these halls had once thrilled him, how he had loved everything about his job as an undercover agent. But since Juliet’s…incident he couldn’t seem to find the same passion he’d once had for the work.
Passionate or not, he was going back under. And he wasn’t looking forward to the team meeting that would take place later today, when Juliet would learn the details of the assignment. Evan rubbed a hand over his face. He knew Bob Sinclair, his undercover persona, was a name Juliet would never want to hear again. Nobody blamed her for that.
Omega Headquarters stood largely empty at this hour except for the security personnel. Evan passed through the extensive checks to confirm his identity, then jogged down the stairs into the large gym area. State-of-the-art workout equipment stood side by side with old-school metal weights, a fitting metaphor for Omega: the best blend of new and old techniques, working in unison. There were also rooms for sparring, for yoga, and a full-size track for running. Evan left his gym bag in the locker room and walked into the main workout area.
Sparring definitely topped the agenda for this morning. Evan decided he might as well take his aggression out on the almost-human plastic dummies and leather punching bags, since the individuals he really wanted to take his aggression out on were well beyond his reach.
He grabbed a pair of gloves meant to save his knuckles from the worst of the damage, and was reaching for the doorknob of the sparring room when he heard noises from someone already in there. Who the hell would be up and going at this hour?
Evan let the door shut and walked around the corner so he could see through the small window of the room. Juliet Branson…
Evidently he hadn’t been the only one with nightmares this morning.
Evan couldn’t help but watch, enthralled, as she danced among the targets with grace and precision. The black tank and tight workout pants she wore gave her the freedom to move as she wanted, stopping sometimes midair and pivoting in a different direction. Her five-foot-four-inch frame was average in height—at six-one Evan was a full head taller than her—but the way she fought belied