Stalked - By Allison Brennan Page 0,82
wasn’t like that,” she said. She didn’t want to talk about her past, and even though it wasn’t a secret that she’d been a championship swimmer in college, any discussion might bring up what happened at her high school graduation. She didn’t even know how Reva found out. It wasn’t a secret, but it wasn’t like Lucy had announced it.
“You gave up that opportunity?” Margo said. “Wow.”
“I swam in college because I enjoyed it. I didn’t want to make a life out of it.”
Carter bumped Lucy with his shoulder. She shot him a surprised look—then he winked. It was a reassuring look. Did he understand her need for privacy? “Aren’t you search and rescue certified?” he asked, gradually changing the subject.
She said, “Water search and rescue. Mostly search, not as much rescue, when I was with the Arlington County Sheriff.”
“I didn’t know you were a deputy,” Jason said.
“I wasn’t—I was in the office developing first-responder plans, plus I worked on the search-and-rescue team.”
“I thought you’d worked at a morgue,” Reva said.
For all her effort not to be the subject of any conversation, Lucy found herself in the middle. She ended up lying just to get the attention off her. “I guess I really didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life.” She grinned. “And all of you are in second careers in the FBI as well, aren’t you?”
“Don’t know if I’d call my three-year tour a career,” Margo said.
“Didn’t you do something before you were a paramedic, Oz?” Carter asked.
Oz glared at him. “Thanks, Nix, buddy.”
“What?” Reva asked. “What’d I miss?”
Carter laughed. “Before Oz was a paramedic, he was a stuntman.”
“Seriously?” Reva asked, eyes wide. “In Hollywood?”
“How’d that happen?” Jason asked.
“By accident, really. I used to skateboard, surf, bungee jump—when I was a teenager, I did some really stupid things, trust me. I think I’ve broken half the bones in my body. But my true love was dirt bikes. A director saw some of my stunts when I was at a competition and hired me. It paid my way through college.”
Carter had Oz talking about some of the movies he worked on, and Lucy was both interested and relieved that the conversation had turned away from her.
Oz, Jason, Margo, Reva—all on campus when Hans was attacked. And Lucy had to confirm where everyone was between midnight and 2:00 a.m. without them knowing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Little surprised Sean, but when he saw Assistant Director Rick Stockton waiting in front of his Georgetown town house when he and Patrick arrived back late Sunday he was surprised.
“You could have called first, Director,” Sean said.
Stockton smiled with half his mouth. “You think I came out here without knowing you’d already landed?”
Score one for the director, Sean thought. Sean unlocked the door, disconnected the alarm, and gave Patrick a glance. Patrick nodded and said, “I’m beat. It’s been a long two days. Director.”
“Good to see you again, Patrick.”
Patrick went upstairs and Sean led Stockton to the back of the town house. “Beer? Scotch?”
Stockton shook his head. Sean grabbed a beer from the refrigerator.
“Hans Vigo’s condition hasn’t improved,” Stockton said.
“Noah told me what happened. It doesn’t sound like it was an accident.”
“I sent Armstrong to investigate. Only he; the Bureau chief, Lynda O’Neal; another staff member inside; and Lucy know that it was attempted murder.”
“Prognosis?”
“None yet. They know they need to do surgery, but can’t until the swelling on his brain has gone down.” Stockton sat at the bar. “I’ll take that Scotch now.”
Sean poured the best Scotch he had, an eighteen-year-old Laphroaig whiskey.
Stockton looked at the bottle with a grin. “JT.”
JT Caruso, one of the founders of RCK, had served with Stockton and Sean’s oldest brother Kane as a Navy SEAL. Sean had known him since he was a kid. “He sends me a bottle now and again, but I’m not much of a Scotch drinker.”
Something was definitely up with Stockton. Sean leaned against the kitchen counter and let Stockton enjoy the drink. He avoided asking questions, though he had many.
Eventually it came.
“Why did you run a background check on Special Agent Richard Laughlin?”
“How do you know I did?”
“Cut the crap, Rogan.”
Sean wasn’t about to tell Stockton anything, not until he found out why it mattered. “I didn’t break any laws or obtain any classified information, so why do you care?”
Stockton’s expression was stern. “He’s an FBI agent.”
“Why would the assistant director care about a legal background check on an agent? I run backgrounds all the time, usually a lot deeper than what