The Lost

“It wouldn’t be the first time a member of the team decided to go free agent.”

“Fake a delay so you could sell it, but you don’t sell it. You walk away with whatever she had in that briefcase and the device. A twofer. If this is the last memo in the file, HSO isn’t yet aware they have a problem.”

“Still another reason to take the body,” Roarke pointed out. “Buys that time you spoke of. Maybe he had another offer. Or wants to renegotiate the fee, from a safe location.”

“It wasn’t about money,” Eve murmured. “not just about money. Buying time, yeah, that plays. She won’t be identified, officially, to the media until tomorrow.”

“There’s more. Photos of some of her work. Images onscreen, slide-show method,” he ordered.

She’d seen death, in all its forms, too many times to count. She watched it now, roll over the wall screen. Rent flesh, spilled blood, charred hulks.

“Some of these, of course, were very bad people. Others, very bad people wanted out of the way. It appears she didn’t discriminate. She followed the money. Some might argue whoever killed her did the world a favor.”

“And what makes him any better than her?” Eve demanded.

He only shrugged, knowing on some points they would never agree. “Some would argue otherwise.”

“Yeah, some would. Let’s find Owl.” She pushed her hands through her hair. “And I have to figure out a logical way to explain how I came by anything we get out of this tonight.”

“The ever-popular anonymous source.”

“Yeah, that’ll fool everybody who knows us.”

He initiated a series of searches, then studied her as she stood still watching death scroll by. “It’s harder when the victim is abhorrent to you.”

Eve shook her head. “I’m not allowed to decide if a murder victim is worth standing for. I stand for them.”

He rose, went to her. “But it’s harder when that victim has so many victims. So much blood on her hands.”

“It’s harder,” she admitted. “It can’t always be an easy choice. It’s just the only choice.”

“For you.” He kissed her brow, then cupped her face, lifted it and laid his lips gently, softly, over hers.

When she sighed and leaned into him, he hit the release on her weapon harness.

“Working,” she said against his mouth.

“I certainly hope so.”

She laughed when he tugged the harness off her shoulders. “No, I’ve got work.”

“Searches will take a while.” He circled her, reaching out to press a control on his console. The bed slid out of the panel in the wall.

“And you figure sex will cheer me up?”

“I’m hoping it’s a side benefit to cheering me up.”

He circled again, then launched them both toward the bed. She hit with a breathless thump, bounced and, what the hell, let herself be pi

“Rough stuff.”

He gri

He yanked her shirt over her head, let it fly as he lowered his mouth, with a hint of teeth to her breast.

She arched, urging him on. The violence here, so full of heat and hope, helped erase all those images of blood and loss. And helped her remember that no matter how they might differ on an issue, even an ideology, there was, always, love.

And lust.

She could take-a handful of that black silk hair, a ripple of muscle as she dragged at his shirt in turn. She could feel the pound of her heart and his as they rolled over the bed in a battle they would both win.

He made her laugh, made her breath catch. He made her skin shimmer and her blood swim. And when she wrapped around him, found his mouth with hers again, she could taste the flood of love and lust and longing.

So strong, so sweet. Her body moved under his, over his, agile and quick. The hum of the work that would draw them both back drowned under the thrum of his own pulse when his hands swept over her. Curve and angle, soft and firm. Wet and warm.

She arched again, rising up where he drove her, to break, then to gather again. Open for more, for him.

When he filled her, when they rose and fell, rose and fell, to break together, it gave her not only pleasure. It gave her peace.

Curled against him, warm and naked and replete, it occurred to her Peabody had been right again. After-sex snuggles were very, very good.

“You should sleep.” He spoke quietly, stroking her back. “It’s late, and there’s no urgency on this one.”

“I don’t know. Isn’t there?” She thought how lovely it would be to just close her eyes, to drift away with the scent of him all over her. “Closing the case, maybe that’s not so urgent on a technical level. But if the killer did have this thing, this weapon, and still has it, ready to sell it to God knows, doesn’t that make finding him, stopping him, part of the job, too?”

“Close the case, save the world?”

She tipped up her head until their eyes met. “You said you had people trying to develop this thing. Why?”

“Better you do it before the other one does. Self-preservation.”

“I get that. It’s always going to be that way. Bad guy has a stick, you get a knife. He has a knife, you get a stu

“The comp will signal when we have extrapolated data. Sleep awhile, then we’ll see about saving the world.”

It sounded reasonable.

The next thing she knew, the comp was beeping and she was springing up in bed-alone.

“What? Morning?”

“Nearly.” Roarke stood behind the command center, shirtless, his trousers riding low on his hips. “And your Owl’s come out.”

“You found him-her?”

“Him,” Roarke said as she leaped out of bed. He glanced over, smiled. “Come over here and I’ll show you.”

“I bet.” She snatched at her shirt, her pants.

“Killjoy. Well, at least get us both some coffee.”

“Who is he?” she demanded as she dragged on her clothes.

“That depends. He, like his victim, has gone by more than one name. This data claims him as Ivan Draski, age sixty-two, born in the Ukraine. Other data, which on the surface appears just as valid, has him as Javis Drinkle, age sixty, born in Poland. As Draski, he worked for the Freedom Republic, the underground, at the end of the Urbans, in communications and technological development. He’s a scientist.”

She brought the coffee, gulping some down as she read the data.

“Recruited by European Watch Network, techno research and development,” Eve continued. “A gadget guy.”

“An inventor, yes. He makes the toys.”

“An inside guy,” Eve mused. “Sure there’s some field time clocked here, but primarily during the Urbans. It’s primarily science during and after that era.”

“Nanotech,” Roarke began. “Hyperdimensional science, bionics, psionics and so on. He’s worked on all this. It looks to me, according to this data, you owe your stu

“Maybe he decided it was time for a raise and some credit.” She tried to make sense of it. “So, he’s lured away from EWN to HSO nearly twenty years ago. And still, I’m not seeing wet work here. He’s a techno geek.”

“A brilliant one. No. No black ops or wet work listed. But look there, his wife and daughter were killed twenty years ago in a brutal slaying.”

“That’s interesting timing,” Eve said.

“Isn’t it? Officially a home invasion. Unofficially, a fringe wing of EWN who’d targeted him for his knowledge and accessibility to sensitive material.”

“They eat their own.” When he switched to the crime scene photos, Eve hissed out a breath. “Jesus.”

“Mutilated, hacked to pieces.” Roarke’s voice tightened in disgust. “The girl was just twelve. The wife was a low-l evel agent, hardly more than a clerk. You have higher clearance, I expect.”