Chapter Fourteen

The storm cellar dropped Shane into a small living area with a couch and loveseat to his left, a tidy kitchenette to the right. The furniture was pleasant but nothing special. Generic. Two bedrooms lay opposite the steps. He caught a glimpse of twin beds in both and nightstands between them beyond their open doors. Another doorway revealed a shared bathroom connecting the bedrooms, complete with a shower/tub combination and individual overnight kits on the counter. Made Shane wonder how many other guests Smoke put up for Alex. The secure overhead steel door was concerning. Shane would've preferred at least two points of egress, but there he was, stuck in an underground hideout with only one way out and a woman who'd had no problem burning her children to death.

As soon as Everlee activated the remote, the overhead doors closed them in for the night. Despite the bright lighting in this comfy underground dungeon, Shane's claustrophobia kicked in, and right on its heels, the sneaky tap, tap, tap—slam! of hypervigilance. A man like him could go crazy locked in here with a murderer like Smart. He swallowed hard, forcing the panic back where it belonged, down deep in his gut. But Smoke said there was a phone—

Oh, there it is, on the wall. Not like that helped much, but relief flooded Shane's insides anyway. He fingered the burner phone in his pocket, the one he'd nearly forgotten. It was another way out, of sorts. At least another way to yell ‘fire!' if things went to shit down here. Sure'd be nice if his heart stopped yammering up his windpipe. But hypervigilance didn't back off easily. He took another slow breath, and…

"You can let go now," Ms. Smart whispered, her other hand's fingers gentle on the tight hold he had on her wrist. "I'm not going anywhere. Are you okay, Agent Hayes?"

What a lie. Looking down at her wrist, he noticed how dainty and slender it was. He also noticed where his much thicker fingers had left marks from him gripping her too hard, too harshly, too—

He let go. Just dropped Smart's wrist like it burned. But the lines left by his fingers remained, and wasn't that just great? He couldn't even treat a prisoner right.

"Yeah, sure. Never been better. Just looking the place over." And fighting off another freakin' panic attack. Would that be pathetic, him, the biggest guy here, crying like a damned baby?

"You didn't hurt me," Smart whispered. "I'm okay. I'm tougher than I look. Really. I am."

Everlee seemed oblivious to him and Smart, which was just as well. Shane didn't want or need the kind of attention she'd poured all over him back at TEAM HQ. She was at the kitchen counter, emptying the takeout bag, which was good enough for Shane. He'd made a big enough fool of himself that first day, didn't need to do it again.

"Where do you want me to go?" Ms. Smart asked timidly.

He nodded at the sofa. "For now, take a load off or go take a shower if you want. The flex cuffs go back on after we eat."

"I'd like a shower, yes, please." Her voice was extra-soft, or maybe his hearing wasn't as good as he thought. Shane almost leaned into her and asked for a repeat. But he got the message when she looked longingly at the open bathroom door and shoved a chunk of her mussed hair over one ear like it annoyed her.

Hurriedly, he snapped to and scouted the bathroom for anything she could use as a weapon. He left one cosmetic bag on the counter for her, but removed the razor and fingernail clippers and took the other two bags with him. The mirror was unbreakable polished steel, not glass, which was damned smart thinking on Smoke's part. There were no windows. No glass shower door. No way to escape. The worst she could do was drown or hang herself with the shower curtain, but Shane didn't think Smart was that kind of desperate. If anything, she'd kept up her lost and afraid demeanor pretty well so far tonight. He'd expected more drama from a black widow, instead of the little girl routine she did so well. Unless it wasn't an act. Unless she really wasn't the murderess he'd seen in that apartment security footage.

Damn it, no. The innocence was an act. Had to be. That was what she did best, pretend to be nice when she was anything but. As much as he wanted to believe that a woman as fragile as Smart could be innocent of murder, Shane knew better than to give her free run of this crowded space. She would most certainly be cuffed to whichever bed she ended up sleeping in tonight, so they could all get some rest. Not that he wouldn't still sleep with one eye open.

He took another look around the bathroom. No hairspray in sight. The drawers were empty, and there was nothing in the cabinet under the sink. When he was sure she had access to nothing that would serve as a weapon, he waved her inside, and he stepped out.

"Place is all yours," he told Smart indifferently. Even then, he knew it was risky leaving her alone.

"Thanks. I won't use all the hot water. I'll be quick so you and Agent Yeager can shower."

See? This damned killer was messing with his head, sounding innocent. Hell, acting damned innocent. But he still had to check the rest of the place for flammable fluids, matches, cigarette lighters, anything she could use to start a fire. Murderers could be damned creative. That was all her innocent routine was, a twisted form of creativity.

He made a beeline for the living area, shutting the door behind him. No more talking with Smart. She was the killer genius; he was just a hired hand sent to haul her to DC. With one eye on the closed bathroom door, Shane set the remaining travel kits on the coffee table, then strode over to the busy woman at the sink.

"I need a weapon," he told Everlee out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes still fastened to the bathroom door.

"Seems you also need to remember that Smart's a master of disguise, Agent Hayes," Everlee snapped. "She's a wanted fugitive, a killer, in case you forgot. Not exactly girlfriend material. The FBI could've tasked the US Marshals to bring her in, but they didn't. They came to Alex. We can't let him down."

"Copy that," he answered softly. There was a terse kind of tension in Everlee's voice he hadn't heard before, like she was pissed at him. Like she was scolding him. "I've seen the security tapes. I know what I'm doing."

"Yeah, well I've seen you in action today, big guy. You were snuggling a damned wanted criminal after that shootout."

"I was just keeping her from getting shot. That is my job, right? To keep the client alive?"

Everlee huffed through her nose. "You had your arms around her, Shane. If that's not snuggling—"

"It wasn't," he told her firmly. "She's not what she seems, Ev. I know that as well as you do, so knock it off."

For some reason, Everlee wouldn't look at him. Not acceptable. Shane took hold of her shoulders and turned her to face him. "What's this about? Am I not performing up to TEAM standards?"

Those brown eyes of hers were bigger and brighter. Was she going to cry? God, he hoped not.

She jutted one hip forward, staring at him without blinking, her hands dripping water from the sink. "Just want your head in the game, Junior Agent ."

Man, this woman could pack a shit ton of sarcasm into very few words when she wanted. She just made him sound like a snot-nosed kid in junior high.

"The remote's in my front pocket. Take it. The red button opens the vault beside the stairs. What you're looking for is in there."

If this was a test of nerves, it was a damned good one. Shane slipped two fingers into that warm pocket, just enough to tug the remote up and out, not one inch more, and he didn't take his eyes off her while he did it. He had no idea if there were TEAM rules about fraternization. Hadn't thought to ask. Hadn't thought he'd need to. He and Everlee were two agents on a job. That was all.

Earlier, they'd had a moment that could've led to something more if they'd been civilians. But they weren't. He was former special ops, and she was every bit as good and as dangerous an opponent as Jessie Krankowski. Which made Everlee just another guy as far as Shane was concerned. If anything, he was The TEAM's latest FNG and he needed to prove himself. He'd already fought hard to get this job. He refused to blow it on any woman. Which, by the way, was not Tuesday Smart.

But this wasn't the time to tell Everlee that, either. Yeah, he'd felt something sitting in his truck that evening at Farmer Boyz, with his hand on the small of her back. He was pretty sure she'd felt it, too. They'd been locked together in a moment that he was certain would've turned into something more. Maybe would've ended with just a kiss. If not for Hailey interrupting them with their order, he'd have taken the chance and he'd know now, wouldn't he?

But Everlee had turned her back on him, and damn it, another chance gone. Another opportunity wasted. Shane let the small sigh in his heart go between his pursed lips. He had a job to do. Now was not the time for high school crushes. Palming the remote, he pressed his thumb to the red button and got back to business. A hidden panel to the right of the stairs lifted away from the wall. Its partitioned doors split to the left and right, revealing a helluva high-tech weapons stash.

A motion-activated light flickered on inside the sunken compartment at his approach, revealing seven McMillan bolt-action, TAC-338 sniper rifles. All were equipped with Leupold Mark 4 LR/T scopes with illuminated reticles attached to their overhead rails, and black, retractable Harris bipods folded flat to their undersides.

"I think I'm in heaven," he muttered to himself as he cleared the space between the kitchen counter and the vault. "Look at these weapons, those knives. Everlee, come see."

Shane couldn't believe the quality or the quantity of what he was looking at. He knew damned well the rifles alone cost over fifteen thousand apiece. He'd priced them online one time but had quickly decided the cost put them out of his league. Tack on those scopes for another three thousand each, the bipods at several hundred dollars apiece, and he was easily looking at twenty grand for one of these weapons. That didn't include ammo, slings, or tactical forward grips.

Lovingly, Shane lifted one of those babies out of its butt slot and pulled it away from the magnetized barrel rest. As a scout sniper, he'd carried a beat-up Remington M40A5. The tan, cerakote-toned baby in his hands now was an entirely different weapon. He guesstimated it weighed around fifteen pounds, geared up like it was. Add ammo, a sling, and a forward grip, and he'd be as close to heaven as any warrior could hope to get. Of course, he'd also be flat broke and owing some bank an arm and a leg. But hot damn, he'd be one happy camper.

His chest inflated with another sigh, much like the one he'd breathed the Christmas before his mom had died, the morning she'd given him his grandfather's Winchester rifle. His grandfather had actually used it to hunt deer, bear, and small varmints, but to this day, Shane hadn't fired the Winchester, not even once. He'd been too busy. The cancer, the funeral, and the Corps had taken all his time and every last brain byte. But now...

A smile cracked his lips as Shane scanned the rest of the treasure trove. Dozens of loaded magazines stood alongside a light anti-tank shoulder cannon, aka a LAW, on the shelf behind the rifles. Next to that, two sawed-off shotguns, phosphorous grenades, and more tactical gear, including vests. The shelves built inside the doors were deep enough to hold night vision goggles, plastic wrapped fingerless knuckle-gloves, stacked boxes of carabiner clips, tactical binocs.

Shit! He couldn't believe he was looking at anything and everything a spec ops guy could ever dream of or ask for.

Flashbangs, pistols, knives, holsters, take your pick. Smoke had built a veritable arsenal and was offering it for free. Shane's nose twitched. He could almost smell the acrid tang of expended gunpowder in the air on the range after hours of practice. Smoky sulfur with a twist of burnt charcoal. Nothing better.

"You have got to see this," he told Everlee again over his shoulder.

Finally, she came to stand beside him, wiping her hands on a bar towel. "You find what you need? Wow, guess you did."

"Sweet, isn't it?" he breathed as he removed a hip holster, strapped it on, then filled its cups with two Glock pistols, both which used .380 ACP. Most over-shoulder rigs needed straps buckled to a guy's belt for stability. Not the ones Shane used. His were custom-made of stiffer material that held its shape and clung close to a guy's ribs. Problem was, there weren't any of them in the closet. No problem. The rig he'd just claimed was a damned good second best.

He tagged a couple carabiner clips to his belt loops and attached empty pouches to them for extra ammo. Two empty mags went into each front pocket. He'd load them later.

Oh, look, IFAK bags. As in individual first-aid kits. He selected one and ripped its Velcro sleeves apart to make sure items in the tri-fold kit weren't expired. Yup. Epi pens, pre-loaded CELOX applicators full of enough hemostatic granules to slow arterial bleeders, one tourniquet, prepackaged burn dressings, a twin pack of chest seals, self-adhesive gauze, Israeli pressure bandages, two pairs of nitrile gloves, two bags of Quick Clot, sutures, nylon thread, and enough hemostats to get the tough jobs done right. All of it fresh. All of it plenty short of its expiration dates.

"You think you've got enough, big guy?" Everlee teased.

"Almost," he replied even as he strapped a minimalist woven holster around his thigh and slid a Browning Black Label 1911-380 pistol smoothly home. The holster fit that particular weapon like a glove, and Shane liked the versatility and flexibility it offered. The trigger guard was made extra stiff so it didn't flap back over the grip when a guy needed quick access to his weapon.

Shane already kept a knife in one boot. He selected another sheathed blade and slid it into his other boot. Never hurt to be doubly prepared, and redundancy was a proven rule in combat. Finally done weaponizing himself, he stepped back and blew out a breath of pure satisfaction. He'd been a defenseless sheep for most of this mission. Not anymore. Even though he'd have to remove nearly everything he'd just put on before bed, it felt damned good being a guard dog again.

He lifted an arm up and around Everlee to seal the compartment. "You need anything?"

When she didn't answer, he looked down at her. She was standing nearly inside the bend in his arm, her body aligned with his. Nearly touching. Close enough to feel the heat between them. Her pupils were big and black, her irises shrunk to narrow rings of dark brown. She licked her lips, making them shine. Making Shane hard. Something crackled between them. Felt like electricity.

Had to be his imagination. Everlee didn't need a broken-down has-been like him. She was tough, former security, a cop, and an officer. A woman to respect. Former AF Lieutenant, for hell's sake. He'd seen the footage from that Virginia Highway Patrol officer's dashcam the day she'd taken down Finch. She hadn't held one thing back. Just went after the murderer with no-holds barred. Alone. Everlee was strong-willed and most likely a better shot than Shane. Frost that humble pie with his chicken-shit meltdown at TEAM HQ, and, yeah. There was no way she could be attracted to a loser like him.

It took a minute before he forced the lust running in his blood like molten lava to back the hell off. So why couldn't he lower his arm to his side? Why didn't he want to? And why was she frozen in place, still looking up at him like he meant something to her? Her, a woman who could have any man she set eyes on. Why was his throat so dry he could barely swallow?

She blinked up at him, her thick fringe of lashes velvety butterfly wings. Her eyes were two dark wells of mysteries he wanted to explore, relish, and solve. "Do you have everything you want?"

He didn't miss the emphasis she'd put on that second you. "No," he said quickly. Then added, "I mean… Yeah. I've got enough gear, but..." No. I don't have what I really want. What I need. What… who… I honestly, truly would love to have in my life. I have no real home. No real family. And that song, "I'm so Lonesome I Could Cry," is the story of my life.

She blinked again, her silence telling. Was she really waiting for an answer?

The air between them thickened. Her eyes were blown wide with what sure looked like lust. Time stopped, just as it had during that moment back at Farmer Boyz. There was something incredibly sexy about a strong woman who handled firearms the way Everlee did. She hadn't run from those asshats back at the convenience store, either. Had instead given chase, ran straight into trouble, and peppered the rear of their getaway vehicle with lead. Then she'd turned on a dime and provided dinner, like any totally domestic badass would.

Shane tucked his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying. Wondering.

They were within kissing distance. Mere inches separated her mouth from his. So close their breaths mingled. He was no alpha predator. Would never be as fearsome as Alex Stewart. Didn't have the personality dominant males did. Wasn't even in the running. Hadn't wanted to sell that much of his soul to be the baddest killer in the tent or room or… shit, not even on The TEAM. If anything, Everlee was tougher than he was. And yet…

Shane was man enough to know that whatever he'd felt for Everlee these past couple days had changed, grown into something else, possibly even that indefinable something more.

The longer their breaths mingled, the more sure he became. Did he dare grab this chance and find out? Ms. Smart was still in the bathroom. How long would it take her to finish showering? Ten, fifteen minutes? Twenty? Thirty? She said she'd be quick, but he had yet to hear the faucets running. Better question, did he have enough time to break yet another TEAM rule? Was Everlee brave enough, dumb enough, to break those rules with him?

Shane hit the red button, and the vault doors hissed shut. The hydraulics locked into place behind him. He squared his shoulders, planted his boots, and prepared to find out.