Page 60 of The Woman Left Behind

“Have you had that shoulder looked at?”

“Haven’t had time.”

Okay, that settled that. He’d offered her comfort, likely against his better judgment, so she felt obligated to offer him something in return. He was tired, he was hungry, he was hurt. She couldn’t just push him out the door.

“If you want to grab a quick shower, I can have eggs and bacon on the plate by the time you’re finished. You likely need stitches and I can’t help with that, but I can put a clean bandage on your shoulder.” She paused. “And you’ll have to put your dirty clothes back on, because I don’t have anything that’ll come close to fitting you, other than a sheet.”

He didn’t say anything right away, making her brace herself for a rejection; he surprised her by finally saying, “Both the shower and food sound great. You don’t mind me using your shower?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I did. I doubt you’re dirtier than I was. The fresh towels and washcloths are in the linen closet in the bathroom.” She showed him the way through her bedroom to the connecting bath; once she’d have been embarrassed by her unmade bed, but he knew she’d jumped out of bed in the middle of the night and his bed likely wasn’t made, either. “How do you like your eggs?”

“In pancakes.”

She snorted, but said, “Got it,” and left him to it, hurried back to the kitchen. As it happened she was short on eggs—she had one—but she did have a Shake ’n Pour pancake mix, and a couple of packs of precooked bacon. She got out her griddle pan and began getting it hot while she nuked some of the bacon. Because she was smart that way, she also started some coffee brewing.

Poor Donnelly. She tried to think of the last time she’d seen him... maybe two weeks ago? They’d run into each other briefly, stopped to chat, nothing special. He was enjoying being on Kodak’s team. Some last meetings were humdrum, completely forgettable. The same with last words; she couldn’t remember what they’d said, specifically. The last time you saw someone should be special, marked in your memory by a sense of importance, but no; last words were special only in retrospect.

The dead guy in the jungle didn’t seem nearly as important now. Someone very much like him had killed Donnelly.

The sad realization that she’d never see him again settled inside her. If he’d quit, moved to a different part of the country, she wouldn’t even have truly missed him, she’d have shrugged and moved on. Knowing that he was no longer alive was different, because he was trulygone;the part of the world that his soul and spirit had occupied was now empty.

She had the first two pancakes plated and buttered when Levi came into the kitchen, dressed in the same pants and shoes but bare chested. She knew why; putting that dirty shirt on over his uncovered wound wouldn’t be smart. She wasn’t in the mood to ogle his naked chest anyway, despite how impressive it was. The sadness in her filled up the space that was normally occupied by lust. She lifted her brows at him. “Which do you want first, food or bandage?”

“Food,” he replied, no hesitation.

She poured two more rounds of batter onto the griddle pan, then took the plate with the two pancakes to the table, along with a fork, the bottle of syrup, and the plate of bacon. “Go ahead and get started, I’ll bring these two when they’re finished.” Then she took a cup of coffee to him, not asking if he wanted sugar or creamer because as far as she knew all the team drank it black; they kept things simple.

“Thanks,” Levi said, his gaze on the pancakes. She understood; she’d felt that way about her plate at IHOP earlier.

He was taking the last bite of the first two when she brought the second two to him. “Two more coming,” she said. “Tell me when you’re finished.”

“Six should do it.”

He was slower on the second two; there was still some left when she brought the last pair. She liked feeding him, she thought. She liked that he’d used her shower. If they were together this was how it would be... ah well, no point in dreaming.

After setting the plate down, she took the time to look at the wound on his back. The piece of wood had left a jagged puncture that would definitely need stitches; the wound was deep, the area around it swollen and discolored, red and deep purple. “Hope you’re up to date on your tetanus shot,” she said. “You should have had that wound taken care of before you came here. But I know why you didn’t... thank you.”

There was something of the predator in the fierce darkness of his gaze that slanted toward her. “I am. You’re welcome.”

While he was finishing she fetched her first aid kit, then he sat while she plastered an antiseptic pad over the wound and taped it. Afterward he pulled on his dirty shirt, took his dirty plate and fork to the sink. She let him, though a proper hostess would have protested. She wasn’t a proper hostess; she was a teammate, and teammates could take their own dirty plates to the sink.

“Thanks for breakfast,” he said, turning toward her. His gaze flickered to her mouth, then his eyes shuttered; he turned and went to the door. When he reached it, he looked back at her.

“I’m sorry about Donnelly. I’d tell you not to let it eat at you, but it will. It’s eating at me, too. You drone operators are supposed to be in safe places, but the truth is, on a mission, there aren’t any safe places.”

No, there weren’t. After he left, silently closing the door behind him, she crossed the room and secured the locks. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She could lock the door, but when it came down to it, Donnelly hadn’t been safe, and neither was she.

Eighteen

In April, the South African banker, Graeme Burger, cleared Customs with his family and for four days gave every appearance of being nothing other than a tourist, hitting all the usual historical sites in D.C. None of the GO-Teams were deployed to follow him; Axel MacNamara preferred to keep a level of separation between his teams and any domestic issues. Let the FBI handle it. That way any triumph was theirs, but so was any failure.

Mac’s policy was proved to be a smart choice. On the fifth day, Mr. Burger somehow managed to ditch his surveillance. In D.C., where cameras were everywhere, that was an impressive feat for even the most experienced agent. For a banker from a foreign country to do it sent alarm flags flying at every intelligence agency in the federal government. He connected with his wife and children four hours later, smiling, and resumed doing touristy things.

Joan Kingsley, alone in her big house, smiled too as she imagined all the intensifying interest being focused on Graeme Burger. The banker was garnering all sorts of attention, and as of now Axel MacNamara would double down on his efforts to find out what was going on. The bastard always assumed the worst, assumed massive, complicated conspiracies were going on all around him—and sometimes he was right. Like now. Only national security wasn’t the target this time,hewas.

She knew how it worked, because she had seen the system in action so many times. Now Devan would begin feeding them bits of crucial information that would pull Ace Butcher’s GO-Team into an ambush—the big step that would hook MacNamara himself.

She could hardly wait.

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