Hidden Agenda (10 page)

“You know I don't believe for a moment that he'd betray any of us either.”

Avery leaned against her desk, fighting back the tears. She'd always been the protective older sister. The one who'd found a reason to keep going after losing her husband. The one who'd come up fighting after Michael died. But today . . . today she felt like everything she'd tried to do to prove his innocence was suddenly slipping away.

She looked up at Mason. “Promise me you'll do everything you can to keep this off the nightly news for as long as possible. I'd rather my mother not know what's going on until we're 100 percent sure whether he's alive or not. Even if that was him on the video, he could be killed before this is all over.”

“Of course.” Mason nodded. “But what are you going to do if Michael contacts you?”

Avery tried to process the question, knowing all her options were unacceptable. If Michael turned himself in, he'd be arrested. If he stayed out there, there was a good chance the cartel would try to take him down.

“I don't know,” she said. “I honestly don't know.”

M
ichael shouted as the ground tore open beneath him. He slammed against the concrete as an explosion ripped through the building behind him, sucking up the air around him and leaving his lungs desperate for breath. Debris smashed against his back and thighs, smoldering embers looking for something to burn.

And then nothing.

An unsettling silence surrounded him. The air was hot and smoky as he tried to fill his lungs with oxygen. Light peeked through the corners of his eyes as he forced them open, the ground rumbling around him. He could see someone run past him. His face was plastered against the ground, and he could feel the heat from the burning warehouse.

Someone dragged him from the pavement. Nausea swept over him as they lifted him into the car. He should be dead. Should be in that warehouse with Bruce. It wasn't the first time he'd faced death head-on and won. But this time had been different.

He shouldn't be alive.

Like Bruce. But instead of being able to save his partner Bruce, he'd only managed to save Valez. Pulled him toward safety the moment he'd realized the bomb was going to go off. Michael's
unconscious mind fought to unearth the truth. How had his dreams become more vivid than reality?

His mind shifted. He was back on the veranda sitting across from Valez, staring once again at his own obituary.

Valez was offering him a smug grin. “I felt like it was the least I could do after you saved my life.” He tapped the obituary with his finger. “I thought adding your love of the outdoors was a nice touch, though I realize it must feel a bit strange to find out you're a dead man.”

Michael had worked to temper the anger rising inside his gut. “I don't understand. How did this happen?”

“I suppose the reason behind your . . . exaggerated death . . . isn't clear to you yet.”

Michael bit back a sharp response. “No, it's not.”

“I'm worried, Michael. Between ongoing investigations by the IRS, the DEA, and every other organization they can drum up, they're getting too close to discovering the truth. They're all threats to this life I've created here. I can't take a chance of losing it.” Valez smiled at him. “I need someone I can trust. Someone they can't get to.”

Someone who
's dead
.

“They were having trouble identifying what was left of the bodies, so I decided to give my friend at the ME's office a bit of a friendly nudge,” Valez said.

Michael tried not to panic. For months, this job had kept him tottering on thin ice, but what Valez was saying was about to send him crashing through the last layer of security.

“Just think of it this way, Michael. How often is a man presented with a chance to start over?”

Michael's frown deepened. How far was he going to have to take this charade? Valez was known to be eccentric, but even this seemed too far-fetched for him.

“I don't understand how this can work. What about DNA?”
Michael countered. “What happens when the police do a little digging, find out the truth, and arrest me for falsifying my death and tie me to you—”

“You, of all people, should know that a simple DNA test isn't enough to stand in my way. You've seen my books. Shoot, you've doctored my books and laundered my money. Which means you should know what I'm capable of ‘arranging,' shall we say.”

Michael heard Valez's veiled threat. As far as his boss was concerned, Michael's hands were just as dirty as his own.

“Of course, it does present one or two problems,” Valez continued. “A dead man means frozen accounts.”

“You just essentially killed me off and you're worried about your accounts?”

“Your job is to launder money for me, in case you forgot. I've just ensured you're able to do it without getting caught.”

Michael forced himself to smile. “Access to your accounts won't be a problem.”

“Good. Because as you know, unloading narcotics in the US has never been my problem. It's moving the cash.” He lit another cigarette. “Which is why I have a proposition for you. Not only are you good at what you do, you saved my life. With Michael Linley dead, I realize you've lost a lot, so I'm willing to set you up with a new identity.”

Michael flipped the newspaper over, then leaned back in his chair. Minutes ago he'd been planning a trip home. A long weekend with his family, away from all this. If he was supposed to be dead, going home would be too big of a risk. Which left him with a choice between continuing to seek justice or simply walking away.

Valez shifted in his chair. “Your new name is Liam Quinn. A rather nice name, I think.”

Michael frowned. Life with Valez had always been like walking
a tightrope on a windy day. One false move and the obituary he'd just read would end up being the real thing.

“So if I agree to take on this new identity, what happens next?”

“We'll relocate you. I was thinking Jacksonville or maybe Baltimore to ensure there are no ties to me here. I'll help you get started again, with all the papers you'll need. We'll even set you up with a seat on the New York Stock Exchange.”

Michael would have laughed if the situation wasn't so serious. The man actually thought he was being generous.

Valez pushed his chair back and stood up. “You're tired. I understand you probably need to think through this. We can wait to get everything set up until you're feeling back to normal.”

Michael nodded. He'd known the risks all along, but this time, he'd known if he decided to stay and play, the stakes would jump to a whole new level.

An image of Bruce rose before him. Bruce pounded his fist into Michael's chest until the flames completely engulfed his body. Michael felt himself melt into the pavement, unable to escape the haunting screams of the partner he'd been unable to save.

Pain and guilt rocked through Michael's body. He jerked up and threw the covers off him, awakened once again by the recurring nightmare and his own screams. Sweat dripped down his back and chest. His pulse hammered wildly as the familiar terror of that moment ate through him.

Eyes open, he fought to orient himself. A nightlight on the far wall cast shadows across the floor. The pain . . . the dreams . . .

Olivia.

The truth slammed through him along with the knowledge that everything that had happened had been his fault. Bruce was dead. Kendall was dead. Olivia and Ivan had almost been killed tonight. How many more were going to die because of him?

There might have been nothing he could have done to save
Bruce, but guilt had yet to release its rigid hold. Because instead of saving his partner, he'd saved the very man he'd sworn to take down. And almost lost his own life doing it. All to stop a war that wasn't even his own. A war they'd never win.

The explosion wasn't the only thing that had been haunting his dreams tonight. She'd been in them as well. Olivia Hamilton. Daughter of the man he'd been assigned to bring in and who now wanted him dead. He'd seen her reaching for him in his dreams while they were being chased through the ghostly swamp marshes, always just out of reach. Until he'd lost her, like Bruce, in the watery depths.

How much
longer, God . . . I can't take much more. The dreams
. . . the guilt . . .

He'd prayed—begged—for the nightmares to stop. There had been a time when he'd thought himself invincible. Thought that there would be some sort of earthly reward for everything he was doing for his country. Every time an arrest was made or a criminal was put behind bars, he'd been reminded that his decision to join the force and make the world a better place was the right one.

But in the end, what good had any of it done? There was always one more person to arrest. Always someone else higher up on the ladder. The pursuit of truth had become a never-ending game of deceit and evil that he had no idea how to fight against anymore.

A pursuit that had eventually led him here.

The door of the room creaked open. Michael lifted his head, wincing at the pain radiating through his rib cage. Olivia stood on the threshold. Light from the living room illuminated her silhouette, and her hair fell in waves around her shoulders.

She started across the room. “You shouted out something. I thought . . . I was worried.”

“I'm sorry. I'm fine.”

He laid his head back down. He hadn't wanted to get her involved, but she was already caught in his hurricane's destructive path. And he wasn't sure he could save her.

Wooden boards creaked beneath her as she crossed the floor carrying a glass of water and a bottle of medicine. “You must have had a nightmare. You're dripping with sweat.”

“It's nothing.”

He wasn't ready to admit his fears, or the terror that had engulfed him night after night for months. She handed him the glass, then opened the bottle.

“You need to take some more painkillers.”

He struggled to sit up. “What time is it?”

“Almost morning.” She rested her hand against his forehead. “Your fever seems to have broken. How are you feeling?”

“I . . . I'm not sure yet.”

He took the water and the medicine without arguing, swallowing the pills in one gulp.

She screwed the lid back on the bottle, then eased into the rocking chair beside the bed. “I used to have nightmares. My mother always knew how to comfort me.”

“What did she do?”

“She sang to me.”

“I bet she was beautiful . . . like you.”

Olivia's smile faded, making him wish he could take back the words. He hadn't meant to be so personal.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound—”

“You're right, actually. About my mother anyway. She was beautiful. I always wanted to look like her. And my father . . . he was rarely around, but that didn't change the fact he was our father.”

Michael formed his words carefully, uncertain if she were trying to avoid the past the same way he was. “Did your mother know the truth about your father?”

Olivia nodded. “She made Felipe and my father swear they'd never tell us the truth.”

“Maybe she was trying to protect you.”

“Maybe.” Her voice softened until he could barely hear her. “The only way I can live with this is to see my father as two different men. The one who loved my mother. Who liked having a family and two children. And then there's the other side of him. The one you saw back on the island.”

He caught the pain in her expression as she stared past him, clearly ready to shift the conversation away from herself.

“Tell me about your nightmare,” she said.

He hesitated before answering. He'd never told anyone about the private battle he'd yet to discover how to win. But there was something about her honesty along with her frankness that made him want to tell her the truth.

“I've learned that dreams are often a twisted version of reality.” He took another sip of his water before setting the glass on the table beside him. “For me they're almost always the same scenario. Part truth. Part illusion. I'm there again on an assignment that was supposed to be a simple exchange of goods, but instead went horribly wrong.”

“What happened?”

For a moment he was pulled back into the nightmare of his own memories. The explosion, the ravaging fire, the stench of burning flesh. It was a place he didn't know how to erase. A place he didn't ever visit when he was conscious. But he realized that her questions were probably more about her father than they were about him. She was seeking the truth just as much as he was.

“Eight months ago I was almost killed in the line of duty,” he began. “I was an undercover cop, in too deep, working for your father. I had gone to a warehouse with my partner with information I thought was solid, but instead it turned out to be a trap.”

“What kind of trap?”

Michael worked to keep the emotion out of his answers, just like his years of undercover work had taught him. “We thought it was a meeting to close a deal, but someone planted a bomb in the building, and my partner was killed.”

“A bomb? Why?”

“It turned out to be an attempted assassination connected to a turf war. Someone wanted your father dead. I ended up saving his life.”

“Which is why he trusted you?”

Michael shrugged. “I'm not sure Valez truly trusts anyone, but yes. I made sure he needed me.”

“While you were doing everything you could to take him down.”

Funny how when selling the job, Kendall had made everything he was planning to do sound downright honorable. Nothing he'd done felt honorable anymore.

“And outside your dreams, you blame yourself for your partner's death?” she asked.

He caught her gaze, surprised at both the lack of judgment it held and her perception. “I've never been able to fully forgive myself. I keep looking at what went wrong, and how I could have stopped it.”