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D chuckled in my ear. “You don’t want to know.”
Grimacing, I said, “You should have just dosed Foundry and Smythe with that. It would have helped—”
“Ew, I’m not dealing with two hostages who have the shits!”
I forced myself not to smile but it was damn hard.
I continued as if D hadn't interrupted, “—but I looked at her schedule and I don’t think she knew Smythe was in the building anyway. She was supposed to be having lunch with her son.”
“I saw that,” Conor chimed in. “But I thought it was best for her to be incapacitated too just in case she decided she needed to come back early.
“Be grateful they’re corrupt motherfuckers who evade their guards. Otherwise, they'd be shitting their pants as well.”
“Right,” I muttered, “shut up now. I’m heading in.”
“I’m shutting up. But Troy and I are waiting around the corner so don’t worry, we’ll be there the second you hit 911.”
“Conor, you ready to reroute the emergency call?”
“Yup.”
I smiled at the sound of his calm confidence, feeling absurdly content because he was in on the job with us when this half of my life had always been a secret from any relationships I’d had—even Maverick.
“Is this the wrong time to tell you that blonde hair suits you?”
Lips twitching, I didn’t answer him, but with a gentle knock on the door, I waited to be granted entry to the AG’s office.
“Come in,” Foundry called out. As I stepped inside, I watched his head tilt to the side as he peered at me. “You’re new. Where’s Anna?”
“She had to step out, sir. Stomach troubles.”
His mouth curved down at the corners as he glanced at his guest, obviously unhappy with that PG version of Anna’s current digestive issues.
With one hand in the file folder I was holding, I moved over to his side and pretended to drop it onto the desk. A cascade of documents tumbled toward the surface, making Foundry jump in surprise and Smythe glower at me.
“I’m so sorry, sir!” I said breathily. “I didn’t mean—”
“Just get out,” Foundry grumbled as I started collecting the papers with one hand, and with the other, I jabbed him with the hypodermic needle in his nape. He yelped and twisted around to scowl at me, but my hands were loaded with documents.
I held them to my chest and began scurrying out as he spat, “You useless bitch. Get me Anna! Where the hell is Anna?”
By the last half of his sentence, his words were slurring and Smythe cried, “David! Are you okay? What’s wrong?” To me, he snapped, “He’s having some kind of seizure!”
I hurried back to the desk.
When David started seizing in earnest, I reached for the phone and started jabbing the buttons for 911.
That was when Smythe caught my wrist. “What are you doing?”
“I’m calling for an ambulance!”
His fingers tightened around the fragile bones of the joint he was trying to restrain me with.
Pretending to be in pain, I moaned and struggled against his hold. “What are you doing, sir?”
“Who are you?” Smythe snarled.
“I’m Star, sir,” I cried. “I’m just a temp!”
