Exposed (28 page)

“Older, powerful man. Younger, pretty woman.” Frank shrugged. “You do the math.”

“Well, that covers two of the deadly sins,” Doyle said.

Sydney cocked her head slightly to the side. “How do you mean?”

“Greed on your brother’s part. Lust on both the Congressman’s and his intern’s. Him for sex, her for power.”

“Well, if you’re going down the list, we could chalk pride up to the hit man who doesn’t want his perfect record tarnished,” Matt said.

Jake shook his head. “This has nothing to do with someone working through the deadly sins. It isn’t a serial killer case. It’s someone tying up loose ends that started with this young girl, Annabeth Kelly. Somehow she became a threat to the Congressman, and he wanted her eliminated.”

They were all quiet for a few moments.

Something didn’t fit into all this and it was bugging Frank. “Why two hit men?”

Now it was the other men’s turn to look confused.

“What do you mean, two?” Jake asked.

“We’re pretty sure Geist is the one coming after Sydney, right?” Frank pointed to the screen still holding the two images of the man. Then he picked up the black-and-white still shots Sydney developed earlier of Annabeth’s actual murder. “Then who is this guy?”

“It’s not Congressman Blanton, that’s for sure,” Matt said, standing with his brother-in-law to study the image of the man with the gun. “I did security at one of his rallies when he was running for re-election last year. Guy’s in his late fifties, balding, and slight of frame.”

Jake nodded. “This guy is probably around six-two, probably two-twenty-five, depending on how much padding is in the coat he’s wearing.”

“A little hard to tell at this distance, but I’d say he’s around forty to forty-five, dark hair,” Frank added.

“So, if this isn’t the Congressman shooting Annabeth, who is it?” Sydney asked. “And why would my brother send the blackmail image to Blanton when he wasn’t the one who killed her?”

“Well, Blanton had something to do with it,” Frank said.

“How do you know?” she asked.

He ground his teeth a minute and inhaled deeply, refraining from cursing her brother out loud. “Because. Your brother sent him the image and next thing we know, you’ve got a target on your back.”

* * * * *

Just before midnight, Castello walked back into the computer command center.

Doyle had scanned the black-and-white of the shooter into his computer and put it into the facial recognition program. He’d said the program could take hours, and since he was an old man who needed his sleep, he was headed to bed.

Sydney had asked if she could use his computer to work on her photoshoot images. Her smile had disappeared again while they’d been talking about the case, and she’d tensed up when her brother’s actions were mentioned, almost turning into a statue at Frank’s proclamation that the hit man after her proved the Congressman was involved.

Doyle had patted her on the shoulder as he stepped by her and told her she was welcome to use whatever she needed.

Frank, Jake, and Matt had silently agreed that she needed some alone time and left her to work. They’d raided the kitchen for the leftover pizza Matt had brought, and the cookies Sami had sent with Jake. Now Jake had headed up to bed, and Matt was settled in the dark front room, watching for any unusual movement on the street. Doyle had the place wired for anyone crossing his perimeter, but the brothers had decided taking turns being awake would assure no one could sneak up on them. None of them wanted Sydney to realize they’d gone into lockdown mode to keep her safe.

He expected to find her curled up in the overstuffed chair, or asleep with her head on Doyle’s extra-long computer desk.

No. Not his Syd. She didn’t give in that easily.

Instead, she was still wide awake, watching videos of the fire that had consumed her home and started this spiral into danger.

He stood in the doorway, watching her slowly rock back and forth as the video played in slow motion. Of course, she’d chosen the one the possible future arsonist had filmed. It never wavered from her house. The flames were alive, eating up the haven she’d built for herself.

Then the explosion blasted debris up, out, and toward the camera.

Sydney jumped as if it were the first time all over again.

Suddenly, the camera’s focus changed, as the videographer swept the crowd, coming to rest on Sydney in his arms. It zoomed in to show the terror and despair he’d seen in her that night.

Anger surged through him once more. He marched over to the computer and shut off the monitor. “Enough, Sydney.”

She reached for the monitor’s On button. “I was going through the videos again, just to see if I missed anything. Or if Ian—”

“I said, enough.” He caught her hand before she could bring the macabre images on the screen back to life once more, and slowly pulled her out of the chair. “You need rest. You’re not staying up all night torturing yourself.”

“I don’t think I can sleep,” she said, even as she let him usher her out of the electronic workspace.

He flipped off the lights as they left the room.

“One thing I’ve learned in all my years of being with the Marshals is you have to get rest when you can. No one can think clearly when they’re dead on their feet.” He laid his hand on the small of her back and guided her through the darkened house to the stairway.

“You know your friends all know we’ve slept together, since you put our things in the same room,” she said over her shoulder as they climbed the stairs.

“Yep.”

“Don’t you think they’ll think it’s rushed? I mean, we just met.”

“Nope.”

He pushed open the back bedroom door, waited for her to enter, then closed and locked the door behind them.

“You don’t care what they think?”

“They’re guys, Syd. They’re not judging you and me.” He pulled off his holster, laid it on the bedside table so his weapon was within reach. Then he kicked off his shoes.

“You’re sure? I mean, I could sleep down in the computer room. That big chair is roomy enough for me.”

“No.” He pulled back the covers.

“You know, you might not care what your friends think of us sleeping together when we barely know each other, but maybe I do.” She took a step towards the door.

He was beside her in two strides. “Don’t.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, or don’t leave?” she asked, tilting her head to look up at him.

Reaching out, he stroked the side of her face with his hand. “Don’t leave this room. Don’t worry what my family thinks of us. Don’t think about anything.”

He lowered his mouth onto hers for a slow, sensual kiss. Before it could escalate into the raging inferno that seemed to erupt between them whenever she was in his arms, he pulled back, took her hand, and led her to the bed. Not breaking eye contact with her, he reached down to undo her jeans, then knelt to slowly pull them down over her hips, curvy ass and lean thighs.

Standing once more, he shucked his own jeans.

“I don’t think I can make love with all your family in the house, Frank,” she said, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

Damn. If she kept doing that, he’d break his own good intentions and make love to her despite whoever the hell was in the house. But the dark circles under her eyes told him just how exhausted she was.

He lifted the corner of his mouth slightly. “I told you that you need rest. We’re just going to sleep, Syd.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but a yawn came out instead.

He cocked a brow and tilted his head in a silent see-I-told-you-so.

“All right, I’ll get in bed, but I’m telling you I’m not going to be able to sleep.” She huffed like a teenager giving in and crawled into the bed. He tried not to grin as he watched her ass move.

Once she was in and on the side of the bed farthest from the door, he slid into the bed beside her, flipped off the lamp and pulled her in close, her head resting on the side of his chest. One arm wrapped around her, he slowly rubbed his hand up and down her back.

“Mmm, you’re warm,” she murmured, snuggling closer and laying her hand over his heart.

He covered her hand with his free one, listening to her breathing slow into a steady rhythm. She’d been wrong. It wasn’t her that was going to have trouble sleeping. It was him.

Now that she was asleep, he let his mind wander and his anger with it.

She was so little, yet so determined and courageous. She was scared. Hell, who wouldn’t be, to know one of the world’s most elusive hitmen was on her trail? Yet, she was using all her skills to try and help them solve this mess.

Dammit, she shouldn’t have to be going through this. She should be walking around taking pictures of beautiful people wearing weird clothes. He’d seen Project Runway once while guarding a witness, and he was pretty sure all the clothes fashion designers created were weird. Although, he had to admit that little wine-colored lace thing Sydney wore to the wedding had been very nice. It showed off her curves in all the right places, and the color seemed to highlight her skin.

He shook his head, squeezing her hand a little tighter.

How had it come to this? One little photographer had caught him in her spell so much that he was waxing poetic about clothes she wore?

Good thing none of his friends knew he was getting so mellow.

He’d meant it when he told Sydney the Edgars and Carlisles were his family. They knew she was in danger and had come to help him keep her safe. It was important to him, and therefore important to them. It was what family did.

Family didn’t set you up to take the fall, or put you in danger because of their selfishness.

Sydney moaned slightly, and he realized he was squeezing her tightly to him. He relaxed his hold and stroked his hand up and down her arm to calm himself as much as her. As he held her, he started making a mental list.

When you’ve got a problem, make a list of all the things you think you need to do to solve it. Start with the hardest one first. Everything else will fall into place.

Granddad taught him that when they started work on the old ’58 Chevy he’d found in a junk heap and wanted to restore. The lesson had worked well in helping him focus on the task at hand and not get overwhelmed by all the work. It took them two years, lots of sweat and cursing on both their parts, but eventually they’d got that thing running. In fact, it sat safely in the garage of the Victorian Village house to this day.

Now the most important task on his list was to keep Sydney safe.

That would require two things.

First thing to do was find the hit man currently on her trail, and the person who sent him. Blanton might have been the one to get the blackmail photo, but as for him being the mastermind behind this attempt to silence the blackmailer—or in this case the person they believed was blackmailing them, Sydney—he just didn’t see it. Like Matt, he’d met the Congressman once. Slick and politically savvy, the guy didn’t strike him as having the tech skills or the government connections to get Geist to take the assignment. Someone else was pulling the strings in this mess. He knew it down to his toes.

The second thing necessary to protect Sydney was find and deal with her brother. He was going to make him disappear from her life. One way or another.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The sun hadn’t quite broken the dawn outside the window when one rap sounded on the door, bringing Castello instantly awake.

Easing away from Sydney’s warm body, he drew the covers up over her and climbed out of the bed. As he stepped into his jeans, she murmured in complaint, pulled his pillow close, and snuggled back to sleep.

He pulled his holster on and grabbed his shoes, leaving the room barefoot so as not to wake her. A quick stop in the bathroom, then he headed downstairs.

Dave stood at the landing, holding out a mug of coffee.

“What’s up?” Frank asked taking the mug. He swallowed a couple of gulps of the caffeine-laden brew.

“Doyle’s face recognition came up with a name on the shooter in the black-and-white Sydney’s brother took.”

They headed toward the command center of Doyle’s house.

“Who?”

“Dimitri Kormenski,” Jake said, from his seat at one of the monitors.

Frank shook his head. “Don’t recognize the name.”

“You probably wouldn’t. He’s kept a very, very low profile since leaving Russia right after the turn of the century.” Jake hit a few keys on the computer, bringing up both the grainy black-and-white, and a clearer, color photo. “Right after the collapse of the Soviet Union back in the nineties, when chaos ran supreme throughout the area, a low-level KGB agent began working for one of the mafias that popped up.”

“Kormenski.”

Jake nodded. “He was an enforcer, at first. Then, he started gaining power. Took down his boss in a firefight and gained control over his business.”

Frank pulled up the chair, studying the face of the man when he was younger. “What was the business?”

“Anything. Everything. Gambling, girls, drugs, extortion. Then he got into illegal-arms sales. That’s when he had a problem.”

“Really?”

“Seems our man Dimitri forgot to tell the supplier of the arms that he was taking them, or that he was undercutting his sales to some not-so-nice Middle Eastern men. He left Russia for more lucrative shores just ahead of a hit squad. Had a brief stint in Brighton Beach, New York. There, he met some contacts, and seemed to drop off the radar right before the nine-eleven attacks.”

“Everyone was suddenly looking for terrorists. An illegal-arms dealer out of Russia suddenly fell to low priority,” Frank said, the lightbulb going off in his head. “So when did he resurface?”

“About ten years later, in D.C., as the CEO of an investment company.”

“He went from arms sales, to helping little old people invest their retirement money?” Dave asked, leaning one hip against the computer table. “Why am I not believing that?”

“Because you have a highly tuned bullshit meter,” Frank said. His meter was clanging like a fire alarm in his head, too.

“Damn straight.” Dave raised his mug in salute.