A Fare To Remember_ Just Whistle_Driven - Vicki Lewis Thompson [69]
AS ROMAN PREDICTED, the attackers had flown the coop soon after Roman and Rachel had disappeared into the park. Sirens wailed shortly after the shooting had begun and roadblocks nearly kept them from making their escape. Luckily, Roman used his cell phone to dial in help from the Agency, and moments before a police dragnet searching the park for the shooter of the man near the delivery van stumbled upon them, a trio of dark-suited agents shuttled them into a waiting car.
Rachel rested her cheek against Roman’s chest during the silent drive. She didn’t bother looking outside or trying to gauge where they were or where they were going. She didn’t care. She was with Roman, safe and warm, and after ten minutes or so, the chill of nearly being killed surrendered to the residual heat of their lovemaking. Roman cared about her. She knew that now. He may have sought her out because of his case, but he’d stayed longer than he should have because they’d connected in ways neither one of them had experienced before—in ways neither of them wanted to give up.
The car pitched downward as the driver pulled into an underground parking garage. Rachel held tight to Roman’s hand as they got out of the backseat and went straight into a dark, mirrored elevator. Sensing a gentle vibration in his touch, she squeezed harder. He didn’t like elevators. She’d known that fact for a while. She’d never thought to ask why, figuring he just preferred the exercise of jaunting up and down the stairs. There was so much about this man she didn’t know—could he tell her? Was his fear born of some innocuous childhood mishap or was this phobia rooted in international secrets?
She had no time to ask since the moment the doors swooshed open, they were led into an office with clear glass walls that darkened to an opaque blue the moment the door closed. Flat plasma screens dominated the room, each playing opening credits from a half-dozen documentaries in a successive loop. Rachel recognized the two that were hers and was drawn to the images. They were so familiar and yet…
Roman cleared his throat, trying to divert Rachel’s attention to the smartly dressed woman at the other end of the conference table.
“Agent Brach, report.”
To an outsider his boss, Amelie Tremayne, likely appeared less than intimidating. Physically, she was average height and weight. Her hair was shock white but softly styled, and he couldn’t remember ever seeing her without dangling pearl earrings. She dressed conservatively, but usually wore a brooch or scarf to lend a dash of color to her somber navy or charcoal-gray suits. He wasn’t good at guessing ages, so he’d never try with Tremayne, who had earned the respect of her minions with a cool, ageless wisdom. She didn’t amuse easily, so Rachel’s curious presence didn’t so much as inspire a crack of a smile.
Roman ran down the facts of what had occurred at the hotel, leaving out the most interesting parts, naturally. Tremayne didn’t need to know—and clearly wasn’t interested—in the sexual and emotional precipices that he and Rachel had climbed tonight. She wanted only the details that mattered regarding the terrorists.
“We identified the man in the street,” Tremayne said. “He’s confirmed as a member of the second cell. We know now that their orders are simply to provide support to the first cell, the one receiving their instruction from the graphics.”
Roman’s eyes widened. He didn’t anticipate his boss speaking so freely in front of Rachel. She was, after all, a civilian. Though in all honesty, she didn’t appear to be listening to a word they said. From the moment they stepped inside the conference room, Rachel hadn’t stopped watching the looping opening images and credits to the documentaries. He knew she’d found the message, because she’d also found the remote control. She’d stopped each screen at the precise moment the message flashed on the screen.
“Find anything interesting, Ms. Marlowe?” Tremayne asked, her tone barely interested. She clearly gave little credence to Rachel’s presence, which made Roman tense with worry. Tremayne