Hearing footsteps, she glanced up. Special Agent Tom Weston, a seventeen-year FBI veteran, walked over and propped his backside next to hers. He was tall, well built. In her early days in Baltimore, he’d been somewhat of a mentor to her. Up until a year ago, she’d considered him a friend.
Hands clasped in front of him, he looked over at her and then motioned at her injured head. “Maybe you should consider a trip to the emergency room to get that checked out.”
“It’s just a crease. I’m fine.”
“What you are,” Tom said, “is lucky.”
Frowning, she refolded the napkins and rested them against her scalp again, trying to ignore the now throbbing headache. Tom’s comment didn’t surprise her. It did however sting more than she would have expected. “What I am is good at my job.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest—”
Her eyes narrowed. “Of course you didn’t.” But they both knew better. Recently her accomplishments and skills had increasingly been downplayed. “And the fact that I’m not included in the Friday-night get-togethers doesn’t mean a damn thing, either.”
Beth knew she was venturing into areas that would only serve to further damage her relationship with Weston, a man she had once held in great respect.
“You’re shutting me out,” she said, and glanced down, not wanting to meet his eyes, not wanting him to see how much his actions had hurt her. “I didn’t expect that.” She looked over at him. “I actually thought you would be the only one in the office willing to back me up.”
“Damn it, Beth.” Tom grimaced. “I have two kids already in college and another one starting next year. I’m not about to put my job in jeopardy.”
“There’s a name for that, Tom. Careerism. The practice of protecting one’s career. At the cost of one’s integrity.”
When Tom shifted his gaze to the group of men near the ramp, Beth sensed he was looking for a reason to leave her, to rejoin the others. And at the same time she realized even if he’d been going about it very cautiously, he had been trying to be somewhat supportive. At least for tonight.
“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m not being completely fair here.”
He rubbed his face, suddenly looking even more exhausted than when he’d sat. “You have nothing to apologize for.” He studied her, a deep furrow between his brows. “But why didn’t you come to me before going over Monroe’s head?”
She balled up the bloody napkins. “Like you said, you have kids in college. I don’t.”
“But you had to know that you were risking your career. That Monroe wouldn’t hesitate to blow you away if you said anything about his screw-up.”
“He didn’t give me a choice.” Even she heard the edge of anger in her voice. “It was a viable lead, and he didn’t assign it. And because he didn’t, terrorism got another payday.” Beth realized the other men were watching them now, and lowered her voice. “I took an oath to protect and defend this country,” she said. “Not keep my mouth shut.”
Tom nudged her shoulder with his. “You always were a damned idealist.”
“So were you,” she offered with a sad smile.
He nodded. “Back when I could afford to be.”
“What did Monroe have to say when he called you tonight?”
“Just that I was to head up the investigation and he’d talk to you in the morning. There’s nothing for you to worry about. It was obviously self-defense.”
He glanced toward where the other men were still talking. This time she didn’t think it was because he was looking to escape her. But then his facial expression suddenly changed, went from one of fatigue to near anger. “What in the hell is Mark Gerritsen doing here?”
Surprised to hear the name, Beth followed Tom’s gaze, certain he must be mistaken. Unfortunately, he wasn’t. At six-three and deadly handsome, Special Agent Gerritsen was easy to recognize even from where she sat. Currently he was talking with the other two FBI special agents and the two detectives.
She frowned. Why would the FBI’s leading counterterrorism specialist have any interest in what had taken place here tonight? In a simple shooting?
Mark suddenly broke away from the other men and walked toward Tom and Beth. When he reached the dead shooter, he stopped to examine the body.
Beneath the beige trench coat, Mark Gerritsen wore a dark suit. The collar of his white oxford-cloth shirt was open, and his hair looked as if he’d plowed his fingers through it more than once.
Not so amazingly, as she watched the FBI’s best-of-the-best straighten and walk toward them, her thoughts had nothing to do with national security, and everything to do with the last time they’d met. A meeting where she had come off as completely foolish and sophomoric. A meeting she was hoping he didn’t recall.
But it probably hadn’t been all that memorable for him. During her sixteen weeks of new recruit training, he’d been her counterterrorism instructor. There hadn’t been a female in the class who hadn’t been in lust with Mark Gerritsen, her included. After all, when it came to aphrodisiacs, power coupled with intellect, looks and honor was damn potent.
Back then he’d been newly divorced and had a couple of kids. Was that still the case?
Tom had stood as soon as he’d seen Gerritsen, but she waited until he reached them to get to her feet.
Tom held out his hand, his expression anything but welcoming. “Gerritsen, let me introduce—”
Mark’s gaze connected with Tom’s briefly before immediately shifting to Beth. “We’ve actually met.”
It was only when he extended his hand to her that she realized she still held the bloody napkins. After quickly shoving the wad into her pocket, she shook his hand, lifting her gaze to his face at the same time.
His eyes were brown, and at the moment the brows were drawn down tight over them. There was a rawness to his features—eyes that were deep set, a nose that wasn’t quite straight, a mouth that rarely smiled. But when it did, there was a dimple just to the left of it. She’d seen it on only one occasion—the one she was hoping he’d forgotten.
“I hear you had a rough night,” Mark said.
“Oh, I don’t know.” She tried for a confident tone. “All in all, I’d say mine was better than Leon Tyber’s.”
Mark’s lips shifted toward a smile, but it never actually appeared. He now glanced over his shoulder at the body, too. “At what point did you discover he was wearing body armor?”
“When my first two shots didn’t stop him.” If he was impressed, it didn’t show.
“How many rounds total?” He seemed to be studying her a little too intently, and she again wondered what his interest could be in the shooting. She couldn’t imagine Tyber having any connection to terrorism.
“He got off three, I fired four.” She was aware that Tom still stood beside her and that there was some animosity between the two men. She wondered about its origin.
“And you think Rheaume hired him?” Mark asked.
She paused. How would he have known that? Then she realized the other agents had undoubtedly filled him in. What else had they said? “It went down like a hit.” She took half a step backward. Somehow it suddenly felt as if he’d invaded her space. “Not to mention the fact that street punks don’t