fresh mug of coffee, she returned to her office. No email had come in while she was gone, but she did have a text message on her cell, which she’d left beside her laptop.
“Well, that was fast, Ethan,” she murmured, setting the plate and mug down and picking up her phone. The text was short.
I agree with your conclusion.
She read the response twice and then typed out her reply.
That highly placed members at the NSA may be involved in J.P.’s death and remain a threat to you and your family?
Yes.
As much as she wanted to help him, she had to proceed with clarity, honesty, and transparency. That meant she had to keep it real.
It doesn’t matter what I conclude. I can’t move forward without proof, especially given the prominence of the potential individuals involved. If you have evidence, if you have names, you have to pass them on to me.
The moment of truth. He didn’t respond immediately, so Candace took a sip of coffee and nibbled on one corner of the toast before he answered.
I’m not sure I trust you.
She sighed. Here was the crux of the problem. Not that she blamed him. His colleague and best friend had been killed, possibly murdered by people in the same organization where she worked, he’d lost the last fourteen years of his life living on the lam, and there’d been a recent kidnapping attempt on his daughter’s life. The Department of Justice’s deal with him had been sabotaged. She’d have to proceed carefully.
Trust is a two-way street. How do I know you have proof and not just allegations? There are no guarantees here. I assure you, I intend to continue my own investigation, which is dangerous in its own way. But I need you to gather and prepare your proof points as well. Criminal intent or involvement is key. We have to work carefully, in tandem, and methodically.
She sent the text, rereading it and hoping the tone and words were right. She’d been sincere, but she had to impress on him the importance of evidence.
I will get you the proof you need, but you must act quickly. We’re out of time.
Why the new sense of agency? She put down her mug and texted back.
Why are we out of time?
She waited, but no response was forthcoming. She was just about to put away her phone, assuming he was no longer interested in talking, when the text came in.
I can’t tell you now, but either we are able to resolve this quickly or people will die.
She frowned. Who would die? Was he implying that there was another terrorist threat, or was he referring to someone else, like himself?
She wasn’t sure what had prompted the urgency and what it meant, but she was going to have to find some allies, and fast. This had reached a point where she had to confide in someone. But who? It was clear that lives were at stake, maybe even her own. She found it ironic she was faced with the same problem as Sinclair.
Who could she trust at NSA?
Chapter Twenty-Two
ANGEL SINCLAIR
The smell of bacon is a hard-wired alarm in my genome.
It was late morning when I finally regained consciousness. I might have still been sleeping, but the bacon caused me to wake up sniffing and hoping there would still be some left for me.
I was alone in the bedroom, which meant Mr. Toodles and Frankie had already abandoned me for the bacon. As I dressed, I could hear quiet voices murmuring in the kitchen. When I walked in, the talking stopped. A quick count of the people in the kitchen and adjoining dining/living room confirmed everyone was awake except for Wally. Thank goodness, I wasn’t the last to get up.
“Good morning, Angel,” Bo said. “How did you sleep?”
“Like the dead,” I said, casting a knowing glance at Kira and Hala and getting smiles in return. I hadn’t expected it, but our conversation last night had brought the three of us closer and given me additional insight into them. That could only strength the team, and I was grateful for it.
I wound my hair up in a ponytail, securing it with the band that had been around my wrist. “What smells so good?”
Kira pointed at Jax, who stood with his back to us at the stove. “He’s making breakfast. Eggs, bacon, and pancakes.”
Holy handsome hottie with a spatula.
I’m pretty sure I’d never seen anything more attractive than Jax standing at the stove in jeans and a sweater, cooking pancakes