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Downstairs, he put on coffee and chopped veggies. He wasn’t a chef, but an omelet was easy enough. Their next steps weren’t easy at all. He didn’t want Wiz, Deb, or the rest contacting him, because they’d hound him about Sam. But staying cooped up inside all day was a bad idea, too. Chances were good that he’d try something stupid with Sam, she’d get upset and leave, and the Bratva would find her. Because Koslov’s people might be gone, but the bigger organization wasn’t. Marcus City Bank was too useful. Before he could decide on a game plan, Sam appeared, yawning.
“Good morning.” She poured a cup of coffee. “I hope you feel better.”
Trevor nodded. “Good enough. Omelet?”
“Yes, please.” She sat at the table and sipped.
He poured the eggs into the pan, waited, then stirred. She kept shooting looks at him, her expression varying from annoyed to pleasant to puzzled. He made toast and finished cooking, placing a plate in front of her and then his.
She took a bite, sipped coffee, and wiped her mouth. “Were you planning on telling me or not?” She straightened, raising a brow.
“Telling you what?” He shifted in his seat, his stomach rising. She’d seen.
She scowled. “That you lost your leg.”
“Oh, that.” He shrugged, trying for nonchalant. He’d hoped to avoid the topic, but he should have known better. Sam was very observant. “It’s not that big a deal.” At first, he’d thought it was the end of the world. But after many hours of therapy, he’d adapted, accepted, and overcome.
She snorted. “Sure. I wondered when I saw the grab bars in the tub, but then I saw the prosthetic when I got up to use the bathroom this morning. Didn’t you think I should know, just in case?”
Trevor’s stomach went weightless again. “Why? I’m used to it. Most of the time, no one can tell unless I’m using a running blade.” But he could tell she wouldn’t let it go. He’d have to tell her the story, and he didn’t want to. Which told him he needed therapy again because he thought he’d worked through all that.
Sam’s scowl returned. “What happens if you break it? Or trip and fall or lose it in the mud or to a rock?”
Trevor scoffed. “None of those are likely. I’m more likely to break me.” He had to get it all out, so they could move on. “It’s a below-the-knee amputation, the easiest kind to adapt to. It happened in Afghanistan. I was couriering cash to a base and our vehicle hit an IED—improvised explosive device. I was in the wrong place at the right time. The rest of the team escaped with mild concussions, and the convoy easily fought off the subsequent ambush. I got med evac’d, healed, and started physical therapy. I’ve got several different prosthetics, lots of counseling, and a VA pension.” If he was frugal, he didn’t have to work. But frugal wasn’t fun. “At the hospital, part of the therapy is job counseling because sitting around doing nothing isn’t good for anyone. Lots of government agencies want to hire veterans; we’re reliable and dedicated workers. The FBI was a perfect match for me as a forensic accountant, so I went for it. It’s been a great job.” He didn’t much care for Virginia and DC, but the job was interesting with minimal politics.
Sam quirked a brow. “And the FBI lets you shine as a white knight.”
Trevor huffed. “That tendency disappeared long before my leg. Downrange, white knight is almost always a trap.” Sad but true. He hated not giving the beggars anything, but they were usually bait. “Anyway, breaking my prosthetic is extremely unlikely. It’s possible I could get trapped, but I was watching my feet carefully.”
“And you work for the FBI now, right?” Her brows narrowed and her head tilted.
“Yes, but you knew that.” That was an odd question.
“As a Special Agent, not an Agent.” Both brows lifted.
She’d done a little research. “You haven’t been using the internet, have you?” Koslov’s organization had some excellent intelligence, surveillance, programming, and research people.
She scowled. “Wiz did her magic on my phone. She also gave me a special browser and a virtual private network. No one will find me that way.”
Trevor shook his head. Wiz was good, but no one was perfect. “Not a good idea. If you want to look something up, use my phone or computer. I’ll give you the screen saver codes and set up a profile for you. Everyone expects to see me here. Turn your phone off and leave the battery out.” Except he had to hide from Sam’s friends.
“Fine.” Her scowl didn’t ease. “But I need to work, and I need to help Deb. I’ll have to transfer files from my business to your computer.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Walker can help, right?” He didn’t want to put the woman in danger, but Sam must have made some arrangements.
She shook her head. “Right now is fine, but not if it heats up. I don’t want her injured or worse.” She shivered. “People rely on her.”
He could ask for help, and he probably should, but he couldn’t tell Sam about the downsides. “I can get the FBI to set up a transfer protocol.” He kept his face emotionless.
Sam scoffed. “Let the FBI into my client information? No way. I’d never betray my lawyer-client confidentiality. I’ll ask Wiz to help.”
No wonder she didn’t want him; she was way smarter than he was. He’d always known that, but until Afghanistan, he probably wouldn’t have admitted it. “But you shouldn’t contact Wiz.”
“You do it.” Sam stabbed her finger at him.
He held up both hands, surrendering. “Sure. Not sure she’ll even take my call, but I’ll try. But not today. We need groceries and other supplies. I’ll bring my personal tablet upstairs, so you can surf the internet or watch movies or whatever. Stay off social media, even as me.”
“You have social media accounts?” Sam’s eyebrows wrinkled.
