Page 54 of Bonded in Death

“I knew he’d probably done some covert work during the Urbans, but it wasn’t something he chose to talk about. I knew he’d lost his wife during the wars, but not precisely how. I knew she’d been a teacher, but not that she’d worked with the Underground.”

“He’s going to need to tell me more.”

She scrubbed her hands over her face, then shoved them back through her hair. “This is hard on you. Seeing him take this kind of hit’s hard on you. It’s going to get harder. I’m going to make it harder. So… apologies in advance, I guess.”

“He’s on that kill list.”

“Yeah. Gotta be.”

He stroked a hand down her cheek. “You’ll make it harder, because you’ll do everything you can to keep him from being checked off that list. Him, and the others he worked with, fought with. I’ll likely have some reactions to your methods.”

She actually smiled a little. “You think?”

“Apologies in advance.”

“Let’s get this done, get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a hell of a day.”

That night, no one slept well in the house Roarke built.

Once again, she woke before dawn, and woke alone. But for the cat who curled at her back.

“Time display,” she ordered, and stared at the numbers on the ceiling: 5:12.

She could try for another hour, but it wouldn’t happen, so why bother? Far from rested, she called for lights—fifty percent would do until coffee.

With coffee, she stood at one of the bedroom windows waiting for the jolt to wake up her body. Her mind was already up and running.

Who killed Giovanni Rossi? Who intended to kill six others? Had Conrad Potter had a protégé? A relative, a lover? One who waited decades to strike?

It made no sense. Rossi, and the others, had lived their lives, built careers for those decades while Potter sat in a cage. They’d made families and homes while they’d slipped into middle age, and some to beyond that.

And put, as much as anyone could, the blood and battle in the past.

And was that the point? To wait until it was all distant, almost like another life? Whenthislife was precious?

When guards were down?

Rossi’s certainly had been.

Was it that best-served-cold business? she wondered.

She downed the coffee, then went in to shower.

Let it simmer, let it cook, let it brew.

The driver/killer. Middle to late fifties. No match on face rec. A pro. Another agent?

There, the smirk bothered her. Why hold up the card, why draw attention? The arrogance of it didn’t read pro or covert agent.

A dozen questions, what seemed like inconsistencies ran through her mind as she stepped out of the shower, into the drying tube.

The through-line came clear, she thought as she grabbed the robe—short, silky, and scarlet.

A team of twelve, and one turned traitor. His actions caused the deaths of two of the twelve. And you could call it murder. Now nearly four decades later, another murder, another of the team of twelve.

Her card stuck between the fingers Rossi broke fighting the traitor. Through line clear there, too. Summerset’s wife to Summerset to her.

She went out and into her closet. Thinking hell of a day, she grabbed black trousers. She started to reach for a black shirt, sighed, then pulled out a tank in what she thought of as a faded sky blue. It justified, to her mind, the black jacket.

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