Trina.
He couldn’t risk not surviving this mission, after all.
Because Rob knew Ivanov was in this building, or somewhere very nearby. Most likely in a basement. The type of underground, clandestine, over-the-top living structure that ROC was famous for. Ingenious locations with even more clever hideaways.
Rob forced himself to urinate, finding that indeed, he’d had to go. Funny how pain distracted one from basic needs.
“Can’t find it, you capitalist pig?” Vasin laughed and slammed down another empty shot glass. Rob bided his time, acting as if he were fumbling with his zipper.
Truth was, he’d be hard-pressed to re-zip his pants right now with his fingers still so stiff and swollen. But he had enough range of motion to open a box with a box cutter, grab a tear gas canister and launch it. He’d use his teeth to get to it if he had to.
Another boisterous toast. The men clinked glasses and Robert ran.
“The agent!” Slurred words from one of them.
“Don’t shoot him! We need his information!” Vasin unwittingly gave Rob the precious seconds he needed by making the men halt in their tracks.
He grabbed the box off the shelf and heard the yells, the sounds of vodka-hindered feet. The carton opened with little effort, spilling dozens of canisters at his feet. He kicked them toward his attackers as he clutched one, armed it and threw. It landed in the center of the group of four men. Then he shoved against the shelf in front of them as hard as his battered body allowed him to. A loud squeaking rent the air as the metal contraption yielded. He looked at his captors as the canister fell toward them. The men wore various expressions of shock, fear and dread. They reflexively reached for their weapons, despite their boss’s order, as if bullets would stop hundreds of pounds of metal and ammunition aimed at them. It was too late. The shelves came down, and he didn’t stick around to see how many were trapped. The loud crack of the detonator was immediately followed by the appearance of a misty cloud of tear gas. Rob held his breath and ran for the exit.
* * *
Trina texted her boss again with the minimal vital details of her plan and what she expected but still hoped she wouldn’t find in the warehouse. Before she added a third text, he called her.
“Get out, Trina. Don’t go in there alone. One explosion leads to more. Mike is on the east side of the clearing if you need him, but I want you both out of there now.”
She heard her boss’s voice over the Bluetooth connection in her earbuds and let out a sigh of relief. “I was thinking the same thing,” she whispered as she looked at the puppy and decided not to tell Corey that she was taking one thing from this mission—a new family member. She and Jake had the space now, so why not?
“Stop! Where are you now exactly, Trina?” Corey’s sharp query startled her.
“Next to the building. Heading out.” She read off the GPS coordinates, in case Corey had lost her signal. Keeping her voice in a whisper, she crouched down to grab the puppy.
Corey swore over the connection. “Damn it, change of plans. Trina, you’re closest. I need you to get someone who’s in there, from another op. Damn these mixed comms!” Corey was obviously taking a call from another LEA.
“Who, Corey?”
“Hang on.” She heard another loud bang inside the building and the puppy jumped, moving away from her. Damn it! “Robert Bristol. Don’t come back without him.”
“Got it.” And she’d get the man. There wasn’t time to ask Corey specifically who the man was, if he was wanted by the agents from another op, or was LEA himself. It’d all come out soon enough.
She shot one last look at the door she’d surveyed. Was she going to have to go in there, after all? This Robert Bristol dude had better know she was going to get him. Looking around the building and the surrounding forest, she saw no one. Disappointment weighed on her. As she turned back toward the building, the door burst open and a hunched over yet ambulatory man barreled out amid a cloud of white smoke. Coughing as if he had TB, he appeared a little dazed. Tear gas. Crap.
Trina drew her weapon and pointed it him. “Stop. Hands above your head.”
The man complied, albeit stiffly. She watched his arms rise and noted his hands. Why were her eyes drawn to his hands? They were so familiar. As if she’d seen them, seen him before. She stared at his face. Her insides froze. Was this how it felt to lose your mind? How crazy felt? Because she felt like she was looking at a ghost.
“Gotta go, boss.” She spoke into her mic, never taking her eyes off the man. The man who looked exactly like the man she’d given her heart to years ago. Justin Berger.
“Trina, wait—” She yanked her earbuds and Corey’s voice out. She left her phone on, though. Headquarters would at least have a recording of whatever was about to go down. Hopefully it wasn’t her sanity.
“Stay still. Identify yourself.”
The man looked stunned as he turned toward her voice, arms raised. Tears streamed down his cheeks thanks to tear gas. They fell from dark eyes. That is, one of them was a dark brown, the other swollen to a narrow slit. His body, at least the parts visible to her, was unbelievably bruised. He wore only a T-shirt that had once been greenish but was filthy and torn, and his cargo pants were unzipped, and God, she could see his briefs and what should be tucked away inside his briefs.
Acting on pure instinct born of years of training, she visually inspected him from head to toe, looking for weapons. Even if he had a weapon he appeared too battered to use it, but Trina knew no matter how much pain either a criminal trying to escape, or a trained agent was in, they’d figure out a way. She still wasn’t sure who this man was—friend or foe. Her orders were to get him but she’d rescued agents from tight spots before, under the guise of taking them into custody. She had to treat him as suspicious until either he proved he wasn’t, or Corey told her to trust him.
“Keep your hands up and turn around.”
He complied, and she swiftly approached him and patted him down. No weapons, but the way his pants fit him, the way his form was achingly familiar, had her wondering again if she was having some sort of psychotic break.
He had an air about him that distracted her, made her think she knew him. She shook her head, her weapon still on him. Focus. She needed focus.
“Turn around. Who the hell are you?” Her voice usually commanded response, but this man only stared after he turned around to face her. He lowered his arms.
“Keep them up.”
“You know I’m not armed. Look, our time is short—”
“Who are you?”
“Rob Bristol. Who the hell are you?” He was her last-minute target, after all. She forced out a breath.
“US Marshal Lopez. You’re coming with me.”
Gunfire erupted before he could reply, and “Rob” looked at her. Because she was beginning to feel that she wasn’t crazy. That this was Justin.
“Who were you here for, Marshal? Originally?”
She stared him down, refusing to answer. Was it hotter than she thought? Was she dehydrated? Because this man, this apparition in front of her, looked and sounded exactly like Justin.
The ghost spoke. “I’m with the government, too. There are too many of them for us to handle.”
Trina remained silent.
“Let’s go before they kill us both.” His voice was taut and he’d obviously had the crap knocked