Her aversion to depending on others was embedded deep in her DNA. As a kid, she’d learned to fend for herself, and the ability had served her well over the years. But Jackson was right; sometimes it only made sense to acknowledge a need and accept assistance when it was offered.
When she gave him a nod, Jackson gently gathered her into his arms, carried her to the living room, and set her down on the bullet-ridden couch. Then he went to the kitchen and returned with a couple of bottled waters that somehow hadn’t been destroyed in the firefight.
Navarre arrived a few minutes later with Pinto, and it wasn’t long before the power was restored and the house was a hive of activity. At some point, Austin had been notified, which resulted in him and a bunch of heavily armed men showing up to help secure the property and clean up the mess.
“All right, you’re good to go,” Pinto said as he finished re-stitching Essie’s wound. Thankfully, he’d restocked his bag with lidocaine, and she barely felt a thing this time around. “Do you remember the instructions I gave you before, or do you need a refresher?”
“I’m good. Thanks for coming out.”
“Hey, no problem. It’s one of my many talents. You should see me on karaoke night.” He snorted, and then his expression turned serious. “Let’s just hope the next time we meet is under better circumstances.”
As Pinto packed up his bag, the front door opened and Jackson stepped inside with Austin. With his grizzled beard and full body armor, Austin looked like one of those guys you’d find in a bunker in the wilds of Idaho.
Jackson just looked tired.
Hands on his hips, face drawn tight, Austin surveyed the ruined living room. There were holes in the walls, bullets in the furniture, and a pair of dead guys on the floor.
“What should we do with the bodies?” he asked.
Essie glanced at the dead mercenaries. “Is there a large body of water with a lot of alligators nearby?”
“The St. John’s River isn’t far from here,” Navarre said at the same time Austin said, “We are not feeding them to wild animals!”
She had a feeling somebody was going to say that. Heaven forbid anything be easy. “Let me make a few calls.”
Several hours later, the sun was beginning to peek over the tree line and an Agency crew was zipping the bodies into black plastic bags. Nina and Austin stood in the living room, talking with one of the field agents, while Essie spoke with her old boss, Deputy Director Isaac Wakefield, a few feet from Bazarov’s corpse.
Instead of his usual freshly pressed suit, Wakefield wore a black windbreaker over black slacks and navy-blue shirt. Tall and slim, his hair had more gray than the last time she saw him, but otherwise he seemed unchanged. Rumor had it he’d been a pretty good operative back in his day, before his move up the ranks of bureaucracy.
He stared down at the body, looking like a man who wished he’d brought an extra roll of antacids. “Rodchecko is not going to be happy.”
“It’s not your fault his dog got off the leash.”
“True, but you know how he is.” Wakefield frowned. “Any idea who sent him?”
“To kill Nina Flint? No idea; I’m working on it. But I know who sent him to kill me.” She ran her tongue along the cut inside her mouth. The bleeding had stopped awhile ago, but the coppery tang remained. “Vaughn’s still alive, but you already knew that, didn’t you?”
The lack of surprise on Wakefield’s face confirmed her suspicions and darkened her mood even further.
“Son of a bitch. You should have told me. How long have you known?”
Gaze fixed on Bazarov’s corpse, Wakefield stuffed his hands into his pockets. “The Agency had its suspicions at the time of the explosion but was unable to confirm. It would have been improper to share unverified information.”
Her internal bullshit meter redlined. “With all due respect, sir, I’d always assumed you were a much better liar than this.”
His eyes narrowed in a rare show of emotion. “I don’t appreciate your tone.”
“And I don’t appreciate you insulting my intelligence. If Vaughn’s still working for the Agency, why is he targeting American civilians?”
Wakefield’s phone chimed in his jacket pocket, but he made no move to answer it. “If he’s still with the Agency—and I’m not saying he is—he isn’t working in any sort of official capacity. I’d never sanction anything like this.”
With her mood so foul, she made no attempt to mask the contempt in her voice. “Right, because that would be unethical.”
The glare Wakefield gave her could have withered a forest. “During your time at the Agency, did Ieverask you to compromise your integrity?”
“Do you really expect an honest answer to that question?” Even now, some of the things she’d done woke her up in the dead of night. She had no regrets—the country was safer because of her actions—but they still weighed on her conscience.
Wakefield didn’t respond. He watched as the cleanup crew picked up the black bag containing Bazarov’s body and carried it out the door leading to the garage, where a van waited to transport the remains. What they’d do with them, she had no idea. At this point, she was beyond the capacity for caring. Her whole body ached, her new stitches hurt, and she wouldn’t be surprised to learn she had a concussion. All she wanted was a couple of aspirin, a good stiff drink, and a few days’ sleep.
