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And now it looked like trouble was brewing again.
He took out his phone and dialed his commanding officer in Blackout Charlie. Con’s phone rang several times and cut off. No voicemail set up for a dead man to drop a message to another dead man.
This intel was fresh, goddammit. He needed to get it into the hands of somebody who would take action before Abubakar’s cell rose again under a new leader.
He punched in another number. The commanding officer of Blackout Alpha picked up after two rings. His voice sounded tense. Distracted.
“It’s Apollo. I have some intel you need to see.”
“Apollo, you’re on medical leave. You’re supposed to be recovering from a concussion, not feeding me intel. Which leads me to the question—why are you calling me and not Con?”
“I tried. He didn’t answer his phone. Look, there’s—”
Sparrow cut him off. “I know you’re trying to keep us informed, but we already see what’s happening.”
“You see the messages flying between Nigeria and the US?”
“You’d better be on a fucking secured line.” Sparrow’s bark didn’t faze Apollo—he wasn’t so easily cowed, even by a man who could, ultimately, get him thrown out of Blackout forever.
“I am,” he grated out with as much annoyance as Sparrow used with him. “We need to—”
Again, Sparrow cut him off. “Wewill handle it.Youwill be lounging on a couch eating grapes and taking naps. Got it?”
He issued a low growl. He started to voice a rebuttal but his good sense kicked in. Rather than argue with a guy who had enough clout to sideline him for good, he snapped his mouth shut.
“Fine,” he bit off through clenched teeth. “When you need me, I’ll be lying on the couch eating grapes.” Without another word, he ended the call.
Leaning back in his chair with enough force to make the wood creak, he sliced his fingers through his too-long hair. Dammit to hell. Would nobody listen to him?
A lightbulb went on in his brain.
Okay, not a lightbulb. A ray of light embodied in a petite powerhouse with enough pull to get things done while tormenting the absolute hell out of him with her curves.
Indika Devi. Only the woman he’d left behind when he “died” wasn’t speaking to him. In fact, she’d told him to stay the hell away from her.
With the decision made to totally ignore her wishes—this was important!—he erased everything on his laptop, then stood and strode to the door again. Indika would be in her office today, andsomeoneneeded to take this matter seriously.
Besides, it was a good excuse for him to reach out to her. At one time, he’d been so close to Indika that he didn’t know how to breathe without her.
All that had changed the minute he went missing, presumed dead, and hurt her.
He grabbed his car keys and locked up. Laundry and other boring chores would have to wait. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to sit around popping grapes into his mouth like Sparrow suggested.
Worst case: Indika slapped him. Again.
Best case: She listened to what he had to say…and in working closely together, they rekindled the romance it had gutted him to leave behind.
Traffic in Washington, DC wasn’t bad at this time of day and he reached the ICE office in minutes. When he entered the building, he had to show ID. The fake one he used for government purposes like this worked without issue, and he quickly hurried to the elevator.
Hell, there were memories in Indika’s office. Hot, scorching ones where he’d kissed her against her closed door and left her quaking on the brink of orgasm after he slipped his hand under her skirt.
“Later,” he’d whispered against her lips. “I’ll come to you later.”
Only that hadn’t happened. That night he deployed to Texas and their relationship was buried in regret.
She wasn’t in her office. Checking the time on his watch, he realized she’d be on her lunch break.
Most days she brought her lunch or grabbed something from the cafeteria in the building. If he was lucky, he’d catch her in a more relaxed atmosphere—she couldn’t kick him in the balls if she was surrounded by colleagues.
