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“Talk to me,” Beatrice said.
“His phone is at Dulles. Are you sure he was onboard that plane?”
“What?” He could sense her coming out of her seat. “Did you call it?”
He was already using a second line to do just that.
“Dude,” Ian said. “Don’t yell at me, okay? I screwed up and missed my flight, but I’m already booked on another that leaves in an hour. And, I have a really good excuse. Remember that dodgy guy I noticed last week when you sent me here to look for spies?”
Every ounce of anxiety flooded out of Rory and into the floor. He flopped back in his chair, making it rock. “You fucking bastard.”
“What? It’s only a missed flight! Settle down, old man.”
Into the other headset, he told Beatrice, “The tadpole is fine and healthy—at least until he gets back here and I shove his head up his ass. He missed his flight.”
“Rory,” Ian said, “this is important.”
“Thank God,” Beatrice breathed in his other ear. “Tell him to call me ASAP. His wife, too.” She disconnected.
Rory felt like he’d been on the verge of a heart attack, and the adrenaline made him twitch. Amelia had caught onto the fact that everything was okay and offered a relieved smile as she headed back to her cubicle.
“Check the news, dipshit,” he growled at Ian. “Then call your wife and Beatrice.”
“Do they really need to know I screwed up on my first training op?”
Fucking kid. “Yes, in fact, they do. Now get your shit together and do what I said. You’re damn lucky to be alive.”
“Fine, but that guy I flagged last week—I saw him again today. Here, nearly in the same place as last week. Something’s fishy. I’m sending you his photo.”
Rory rubbed his eyes. “Look, tadpole, maybe heisa spy, maybe he’s not. Doesn’t matter right now. Do what I said. Vivi. Beatrice. Now.”
He hung up.
Amelia didn’t say anything more and he was grateful. Shit happened on a regular basis with field ops—he was used to it. Thrived on helping SFI operatives get out of scrapes and jams, in fact. But something about this had jarred him.
I am getting old and soft. Worrying about these new recruits…damn it. He was acting like Ian’s father rather than a mentor.
“Can I ask what happened?” Amelia watched him from her chair. He could see the digital calendar on her screen. “Everyone is okay, right?”
“We’re all good.” He massaged his knee, shifted gears. Shoved the fear and anger back into the hole. “How’s your schedule looking?”
“Well.” She tapped her fingers on the desktop, concentrating. “I should be able to shift tomorrow’s sessions to Tuesday and two to Wednesday. That gives me tomorrow and Monday off. The one person missing is”—she glanced over her shoulder at him—“you. From the way you’re gimping around, I’m guessing next Saturday is the earliest we’ll be able to do any legwork. We can concentrate on your upper body tomorrow at three.”
“Amelia, you just got out of the hospital. Hell, you may need physical therapy yourself. No one will die if you take a few extra days off.”
She used the touchpad to open a folder, searching for a file she wanted. “The best thing I can do is get back to work.”
The damn woman was going to kill him. He took a moment to breathe so he didn’t swear at her bullheadedness.Let it rest. He would let her think she had the upper hand and keep her where he could have an eye on her. That was still his best move.
Besides, he had five different fires to put out by the looks of what Beatrice was sending him via their internal server. His phone dinged with a text from Ian, and Rory barely gave it a glance as he pulled the plug on the training mission and sent the details about a future date, time, and place to Ryker and Mia. Thank the heavens they hadn’t been on that plane.
Down the rabbit hole of SFI he went and a soft rippling bell sound brought him out of it a while later. He kept his eyes on his three screens, checking on information involving the crash, confirming details around a new Rock Star assignment that involved a high-level intelligence agent in trouble with a Mexican cartel, and lining up the staff who would be moving the bulk of their servers to the new headquarters site Thursday.
The rippling bell got closer, louder, and someone cleared their throat. He looked up to find Amelia frowning at him and holding out her phone with the alarm going off. “We are now going on thirty-six minutes. You said every thirty. Whatever you’re doing, stop and take a break.”
“I wish I could but—”
“Don’t give me that. We’ve been down this road before with you, remember? If I never hauled your butt away from this computer, you would still be in the wheelchair. There’s never a good time with you. To quote a wise man, ‘No one will die if you take a break.’”
