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Anna knew that too.
Yet she took the risk.
She’d been taking it for years.
He chewed on a piece of gum, turning ideas over in his mind.
He could think of only one good idea. But if she used it against him, he’d be out of a job faster than he could blink and might even end up in jail. Nonetheless, he needed to do something drastic.
Jackson picked up the phone. “Max, can I have the memory card back?”
“Yes, but why?”
“I want to give it back. I don’t want her to know we have it yet.”
A pause followed. “Whatever you think is best,” Max said casually. “It’s in the envelope underneath the folder on your desk.”
“Thanks,” Jackson said and hung up.
He found the envelope and pulled out the memory card before loading it onto his computer. Then he added two additional documents. He wondered if Max was in his computer now, watching him.
He did it anyway.
If he pulled this off, it would be worth it.
Jackson ejected the memory card, tucked it into his jeans, then turned his mind to the next problem.
How was he going to find her?
The grocery store had been pure luck; or, as he thought of it, God’s handiwork.
He prayed for another opportunity.
The hours passed by quickly as Jackson reviewed case notes, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Anna and how to reach her.
He didn’t know where to start looking. Her car was registered to a vacant apartment—his team had already scoped it trying to get a tracker on her car.
Her mail was sent to a PO box, which he could stake out, but he had no idea how often she went there.
Jackson chewed on his cheek.
Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. Maybe he needed to draw her out.
He grabbed his car keys, checked his pistol was fully loaded, then tucked it into his back pocket.
He didn’t tell anyone where he was going—yet another risk—but he needed to do this as discreetly as possible.
Jackson drove to Sloan’s, hoping he wasn’t making a fatal mistake, and when he pulled up in the parking lot, he wasn’t surprised that her car wasn’t there.
But the truck that belonged to the owner was, and Jackson had noticed the way he’d looked at Anna—almost like a father might look at his own daughter. There was a protectiveness in his eyes that wasn’t in Diaz’s.
Whatever their connection, the bartender was on Anna’s side. Of that much Jackson was sure.
He opened the car door, strode into Sloan’s, and noticed the shift in energy immediately. Jackson didn’t think they knew he was an agent because no one took a shot at him, but clearly Sloan’s wasn’t a place for new people to make friends.
He took a seat at the bar.
“You got a death wish?” the owner, Damon, asked as he walked toward him, placing a glass of whiskey in front of Jackson. He’d remembered his drink, and his face. Jackson knew he would—bartenders recalled details like that. They made it their job to remember faces and their drinks.
