Aimpoint by Candace Irving (best mystery novels of all time .TXT) 📗

up to that kiss in his driveway. "So, you and Terry—"

"He's a friend."

"One you've used to cover your lies before? In your…work."

"I'm sorry, I can't—"

"Right."

Irony bit in again as those shadows returned. Swimming among them were all the questions John now had for her, but that she wasn't at liberty to answer. The turnabout might've been amusing. Except it was anything but.

As was this rapidly deteriorating interview.

John jerked his chin toward the blond strands that had escaped her makeshift bun. "You dyed your hair to play Rachel, didn't you?"

Oh, boy. There was only one place this was headed.

Still, she nodded.

What other option did she have? The chances of his forgiving her were already slim to none. If she lied to him now, there was no chance.

"So, you were in that bar, looking like you did, to meet him."

She managed another nod.

As did he. "But you got me. And since Evan had refused to bite, you were stuck with me—because he was in my house."

"Yes."

LaCroix, bastard that he was, was right. John would never forgive her. How could he? She wasn't sure she could get there herself.

"Just to clarify, if Evan had been interested, you'd have left with him that night instead of me."

"John—"

"Answer the question, Chief."

Chief. Not Regan, not Agent Chase. Hell, not even Rachel.

"Yes."

The fury had returned, and it was everywhere now. In that scorching stare and in that clipped jaw. In those rigid shoulders and those tightly bunched muscles. And in that telltale pulse. For the first time since they'd met, the latter's thunderous pace revealed more than she wanted to know. John was beyond livid. With her. "There's no article, then. But you have been writing up every moment you've spent with me, haven't you? Everything we've said. Everything we've done."

Not everything.

But would he believe her?

She opened her mouth to tell him, despite the recorder, only to snap it shut as the door to the interview room blew inward. A split second later, Jelly's jubilant, freckled grin barreled inside.

"Holy crap, Prez—you did it! The boss was right; you are the master of undercover. You can get to anyone. LaCroix's spilling as we speak, including how, where and why he built that bomb. He's—" The rest died in his throat, drowned by the flash flood of scarlet that rivaled the man's hair as Jelly finally realized who was seated across the table from her.

It was too late. The damage had been done.

John stood.

She didn't even rate a parting glance as he executed a stiff turn and strode to the door. John stopped beside her fellow agent, but didn't deign to look at Jelly either. "Am I finished?”

The scarlet tide bled all the way down to bloodless white as Jelly swallowed audibly—and risked a glance at her.

She nodded.

Another swallow as he shifted his attention back to John. "Yes, sir. We'll have your statement transcribed. We'll call when it's ready to be signed."

"Excellent. See that you do." The implication was as clear as it was humiliating. Worse, the dam that John had carefully wedged up against his anger since he'd discovered her true identity was about to blow.

John knew it too, because he didn't say another word. He left.

Regan stood and crossed the room.

"Fuck, Prez. I'm sorry—"

Unlike John, she did spare Jelly a glance as she paused at his side. "Not your fault." This was all on her, and she knew it. "Turn off the recorder and watch those two evidence bags for me, will you? I'll be back to log it all in."

"Sure thing."

She followed John out the door. She had to double-time down the hall and out of the building to catch up with him in the darkened parking lot. He was closing in on the cluster of sand-colored trucks and Humvees. His silver Wrangler appeared to be tucked in the middle. So much for situational awareness. If she hadn't been so unsettled by that showdown with LaCroix when she'd arrived back here, she might've seen the Wrangler then and realized John was waiting inside.

Though, really, would that have changed any of this?

Still, she had to try.

"Wait! Please, John, let me—" She broke off as he whirled about to confront her beside the bumper of the nearest Humvee.

"Explain? Oh, feel free, Chief. What exactly was going through your head when you came over to console me so very sweetly tonight?"

Shit. He really had survived the day from hell, hadn't he?

The vestiges were all right there in his face, threatening to break free. The stress of walking that classified line between an eager Ertonç and a recalcitrant Saniye, as the Pentagon—and quite possibly the White House—breathed down his neck with expectant breath. Dealing with LaCroix and their disintegrating friendship as he'd tried to support the man amid the sergeant's grief and burgeoning anger. His guilt over failing to help LaCroix, let alone discern what the sergeant was plotting in time to talk him down, much less thwart him from nearly killing Olan, Saniye and those kids. The risk to NATO. Not to mention losing yet another fellow soldier and good friend to that Iraqi bombing in the middle of it all.

And now her.

She reached out to touch his arm. It was a mistake.

The rage was all but radiating off him. He wasn't even trying to absorb it anymore as he jerked back. Glared down at her. "Well?"

"I wanted to tell you. I was going to."

"Really? And was that confession scheduled for before or after that first time, up against the wall in my living room? Or how about the second, in my bed? Or the third? Or how about while you were waiting for me to fall asleep so you could crawl out of my arms and sneak into my kitchen to rifle though my garbage? Or maybe you just planned on waiting until the bitter end, gathering it all up and hoarding the juicy details of my goddamned stupidity before confessing all when you took the stand at Evan's court-martial?"

"That's not—"

He shook his head, cutting her off again.