Shades of Gray Read online

  Laura’s skirt pinched at her waist. Wishing she’d been more disciplined and not eaten that second slice of chocolate dessert pizza, she shifted away from the counter and nodded toward the answering machine. “Who left the ‘unfit for mixed company’ message?”

  “Madeline.” Betsy grimaced, making her feelings on the matter clear to anyone with eyes. “She’s in rare form tonight. Drunk and watching soaps. I heard the music and recognized it right off.”

  Laura frowned back at Betsy. They both knew what soaps and Scotch meant. Madeline was on a Class-A binge. Miserable and damn determined everyone else be miserable with her. As if Laura harbored any doubts.

  “I’d wait until we’re gone to listen to it,” Betsy advised, her round face twisting with irritation. “It’ll only upset the boy.” She adjusted her purse strap on her forearm, not meeting Laura’s eyes. “Actually, my Andrew would insist you wait to listen to it when the major gets home.”

  Half-tempted to do exactly that—it’d already been an emotional roller coaster of a day—Laura pasted on a smile. Betsy was truly worried to bring her dead husband up twice in one conversation. “Trust me, Betsy. There’s nothing that woman can say to me now that she hasn’t said at least once in the past thirteen years. It’ll be fine. And I really appreciate you getting Timmy out of Madeline’s line of fire. The adoption going through has her riled up. She’ll calm down in a few days.”

  “I’m sure you know best, dear, but—” Betsy fell silent, then smiled at Timmy, who’d come back into the kitchen. “Ready, Tiger?”

  Timmy grinned up at her from under the bill of his Cards cap. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then kiss your mother, and let’s go.”

  Your mother. Your mother. Laura really was his mother now. Her chest fluttering, she opened her arms, then squeezed him tightly. “Gosh, but I love you.” Her throat thick, she smiled and let him go. “Got your rabbit’s foot?”

  “Right here.” He patted at his jeans pocket, then held out his hand.

  Laura wrinkled her brow, puzzled.

  “The keys. Didn’t Mr. Green say to put ‘em under the mat?”

  “He did.” Laura fished her key chain out from her purse then passed the ignition key to Timmy. “I’d forgotten already.”

  “That’s okay.” He gave her his sidelong, partners-in-crime grin. “I remembered.”

  “Yeah.” Laura smoothed his hair, then watched him walk to the door where Betsy stood waiting. “Have a good time, and behave yourselves.”

  “We will,” Betsy said. “See you Saturday night.”

  Timmy looked back at her. “Love you, Mom.”

  Tenderness welled in her chest, and her eyes burned. “Me, too. Be safe.”

  When they’d gone, Laura unfastened the button on her skirt at her waist, swearing next time she would forgo the second piece of dessert pizza. Eager to call the deed done, she poured herself a glass of wine, took a fortifying swig, then tapped the flashing red light on the answering machine, wondering if the message had been left before or after the Pizza Hut fiasco.

  “You bitch,” Madeline screamed. “You bribed that judge. I know you did.”

  Obviously, before. And just as obvious, the woman didn’t know spit about Judge Victor “Bad Ass Bear” Barton.

  “You think you’re so smart, don’t you, Laura? First you steal my husband, and now you steal my son. Well, maybe you are smart. But maybe you’re just being your typical, shortsighted, stupid self. What difference does it really make whose name’s on that piece of paper? What have you gained?

  “Down deep, in places you never talk about, you know you haven’t gained a damn thing. Because under all the fluff is the truth. And the truth is neither of them will ever love you as much as they loved me . . .

  “So you lose, Laura. You live my life, and you forfeit your own.”

  The soap’s theme song sounding in the background, Madeline’s outrage turned to laughter that bordered on hysteria, grating on Laura’s raw nerves.

  “Isn’t that a hoot? You haven’t gotten away with anything. You, or that bastard Barton. Can’t say I didn’t warn you. I distinctly told you nothing is black and white. It’s all shades of gray. You should have remembered that . . .

  “Barton should have, too. God knows he’s old enough to have learned it on his own, but it appears you both need a reminder. So that’s what you’re going to get.” Madeline let out a little grunt. “By the time I’m done, you’ll both wish to hell you’d never met me.”

  “Safe bet,” Laura told the machine. Having heard more than enough, and knowing Madeline would rant on until the tape cut off, she lifted her hand to erase the message. Some sixth sense warned her against it, so she saved it, and then shut off the machine, feeling more than a little tight-jawed herself.

  The woman knew right where to aim her arrows; Laura had to give her that. She blew out a frustrated breath, then took a sip of the cold wine. “I just don’t get it. I can design a communications device that can be implanted under a man’s skin and track him via satellite anywhere in the world. I can do things with communications that ten years ago would have seemed like something right out of Star Wars. I can do all that, and yet I can’t find a way to block solicitors’ phone calls or hate messages on my own damn answering machine. Why is that?”

  Realizing she’d been shouting, Laura pulled in three sharp breaths and then expelled them. No. No way was she going to take a stressful but beautiful and joyful day and let Madeline ruin it. No way. Laura would calm down, center herself, and nip this nonsense in the bud.

  But as she calmed, fresh pain surged through her chest. For all Madeline’s lies and refusals to acknowledge Laura’s place in Jake’s life, about one thing the woman was right.

  Jake and Timmy would never love her as they’d loved Madeline.

  And that hurt. Depressed, feeling vulnerable, alone, and adrift, Laura showered, wishing Jake were home. She toweled off, slipped on one of his T-shirts, and rubbed the soft cottony fabric against her stomach. If he knew she slept in his shirts whenever he was away, he’d either laugh at her or consider it a breach of their agreement and be ticked to the high heavens. But right now she didn’t give a flying fig. She’d had a hellish couple of days, and, by God, she needed comfort.

  By the time she sat down on the den sofa, she was a heartbeat from tears. Drunk and watching soaps, it appeared a certainty Madeline would file suit and attempt to have the adoption set aside. It wasn’t right or fair, not that either seemed to make any difference. So little in their lives was right or fair. She and Jake had waited two years for the adoption. And now when it’d finally come, Jake wasn’t even there. Damn it, it was their anniversary, too.

  Indulging in a moment of self-pity, Laura curled up, propping a soft teal throw-pillow against the sofa’s arm, under her ribs. Had Jake remembered? Did their anniversary mean anything to him? In the past three weeks of living with her, had he even once wished there could be more between them? Had he even once seen her not as a friend, but as a woman? As his wife?

  God, but she missed him. In ways she knew she shouldn’t. And she knew he would be worrying himself sick about the adoption hearing, too. Like the other wives, she’d been trained not to bother him when he was TDY with personal matters he could do nothing about, so it hadn’t occurred to her to call him—until now. She could leave a message for the Ops Center to pass along to him. That would be perfectly acceptable, since it’d ease his mind to know the adoption had gone through.

  She stopped berating herself for letting her emotions slip over the friendship line. There was no harm done, provided Jake never knew it. And he’d certainly never hear it from her. She’d fight these feelings. Hard.

  Promising herself that, she called the number she’d been given. If he should be able to check in, a message would let him know things had gone well in court today.
The news that they might have to return to court could wait until he got home, as could the news of Laura’s communications consultant reactivation. Right now, the last thing he needed was more worries.

  A man answered on the third ring. “Special Operations. Captain Perry.”

  “Hi, this is Laura Logan.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Logan.”

  “May I leave a message for Jake?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Is this an emergency?”

  “No, it isn’t. But it is important.” What in the world was going on there? The Ops Center was always busy, but seldom frantic. Why all the background noise? Odd—unless something of major importance had just broken loose. “Just tell him the adoption went through.”

  “I’ll get word to the major ASAP, Mrs. Logan, and congratulations on the adoption.”

  More noise. More elevated, urgent voices. Something serious was wrong; Laura felt it. Shivering, she hugged herself. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He broke the connection.

  Seeing horrific visions of another Class-A mishap, Laura hung up the phone, shaking and hoping to God Jake was okay.

  Dizzy and sweat-soaked, Jake pulled the airboat into a small inlet—the pre-designated rendezvous point—then cut the engine. Why the hell hadn’t some genius designed a field test he could perform to check for biological contamination? He’d had no choice but to enter the swamp without protective gear. If he’d been intercepted, it’d have been impossible to explain being suited up. But even without a field test, which could have warned him early on exactly what he’d been exposed to and directed proper treatment, Jake knew he’d been exposed to something. With the dizziness, bouts of sweats, and nausea, how could he not know?

  By necessity, he’d touched the photograph of Laura and carried the corpses to the airboat, having to make three trips from the clearing to it. A strong surge of thought-numbing fog washed through him. Shaking his head, fighting disorientation, imbalance, and an inability to focus, he reached into his black carryall, scraping his knuckles on the zipper. He dug around blindly, locating a blister pack of antibiotics, and then dry swallowed the two pills.

  If ROFF operated like most terrorist groups and contaminated the operatives with strong anthrax, the antibiotics would handle it, and Jake would be fine. If it was botulism, he was in trouble. He’d waited too long to self-medicate. But ROFF could be producing toxic germs that alter genetic structure. Those germs were less commonly used because of their long-term environmental contamination effects, yet with a fanatic group, who knew? It was entirely possible ROFF didn’t give a damn if they destroyed the eco-balance of the Everglades along with Jake Logan and the three CIA operatives. If that proved to be the case, then the damage was done. There was no cure for gene-altering germ contamination. And that left Jake a walking dead man.

  Water lapped at the hull of the boat. Jake could get into the water, wash off some of the germs, but then he’d contaminate the water, and the damage would ripple out from there, carried by the wildlife. Tempted, but unwilling to do that, he slumped down, too dizzy to stand. Pain squeezed his stomach. He grunted and forced himself to think. He’d made it to the rendezvous point with the operatives. Soon their ride would arrive, and, in a couple of hours, a clean-up crew would be dispatched to the swamp to assess damages and do all that could be done to remove any residue. Then Jake would have his answers. Would know if he’d live or die.

  He stared at the corpses and licked at his parched lips. Until then only the killers and the three dead men could answer the question of what had been used to kill them. And only they knew the significance of Laura’s photo.

  That condemned Jake to waiting for the autopsy reports. Condemned him to waiting to ask Laura why her photo had been in a dead CIA operative’s hand.

  Sweat on Jake’s forearm gleamed in the moonlight, and the brisk night breeze chilled him all over. His teeth chattering, sweat streaming down his face, he rolled his gaze west, trying to spot their ride. Nothing there. Not yet.

  Bury it, Logan. Bury it. He had to stay conscious until they arrived, to warn them to suit up to avoid contamination before making physical contact. He had to tell them about Laura’s photo.

  She could be a target as a means of getting to Jake. His head swimming, his stomach lurching, he gritted his teeth, fought to think, to stay alert. Or Laura could still be an operative, as she had been when they’d met thirteen years ago.

  No. He swept his clammy brow with the back of his arm. No, she was his wife now. If she were still an active operative, she’d have told him. Wouldn’t she?

  She would . . . if she trusted him.

  Breathing erratically, his clothes sweat-soaked and clinging to him, Jake focused on steadying his breaths, just as he had when he’d taken a knife in the lung a few years ago. He’d needed surgery, but had refused it until an OSI officer could get to the civilian hospital and certify that while under anesthetic, Jake didn’t disclose any classified information. Without the OSI officer, Jake had two choices. Surgery without anesthetic, which was highly opposed by both him and physicians, or no surgery. The order against self-medicating was concise and clear. Beyond an aspirin, you didn’t do it. And being professionally medicated without OSI present was considered a risk to national security. Knowingly or not, the officer could compromise a mission, could cost people their lives—and he could lose his security clearance, as Jake could now, having taken the antibiotics. He’d been issued them, but prior to self-administering, he needed authorization. To get that authorization he would have had to break communication silence with a simple “147298 requesting 4,” then wait for the blissfully short “Tango” response. But, fearing transmission interception by ROFF, he hadn’t dared risk it. Not until he got the bodies out and safely into Ops hands. Within them lay evidence and vital information.

  Maybe for similar reasons, Laura hadn’t told Jake she was still active in the intelligence community. It’d be just like her to decide he had no need to know, and that knowing would somehow endanger him. Still, the woman was his wife. She should have told him. He had clearance, so she certainly could have told him. It had to be a matter of trust.

  Sean Drake flickered through Jake’s mind. When the truth came down to brass tacks, did anyone trust anyone? Really?

  But maybe ROFF was sending Jake a message with Laura’s photo, telling him he’d better cooperate with them or ROFF would target Laura. Or maybe the CIA operative killed was telling Jake that Laura had been designated a ROFF target.

  Or maybe the operative was warning Jake that Laura was the Special Ops trained head of ROFF.

  An icy shiver raced up Jake’s backbone. His stomach burned like fire. As impossible as that scenario seemed, Laura had the skills and training. She could head ROFF. The question was, would she?

  His instincts said no. His heart said the idea was crazy and insulting to her. But both his instincts and heart had been wrong before, and this matter ranked too important to rely on them alone. Guilty until proven innocent; that was the military position in situations such as this, and for everyone’s safety, that had to be the official stance. To consider her innocent, Jake needed proof. Concrete evidence against someone. Indisputable, concrete evidence against someone.

  Laura was either an innocent, or guilty of treason against the United States Jake had sworn to protect. A victim—or the enemy.

  She was his best friend, his wife, and, God help him, Jake had to prove which.

  Eight

  Tuesday night, the phone rang.

  Laura dragged herself from the fog of sleep and squinted through the dark at the clock. Who’d be calling just before eleven? She grabbed the receiver and bumped it against her chin. Suffering the sting, she grumbled, “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Logan?”

  She didn’t recognize the man’s voice. “Yes?”

  “General Con
nor here.”

  Oh, God. What had happened to Jake? Laura squeezed her eyes shut. He couldn’t be dead. No, he couldn’t be. If he were dead, the chaplain would come to the house. No, not dead. But maybe Jake was hurt, or being held hostage. “Yes?”

  “Could you come out to the base, to headquarters? I realize it’s late, but I need to talk with you.”

  To talk with her? Maybe this wasn’t about Jake. Maybe it was an Intel consultation call. But if that were the case, then why did she have this feeling of dread ripping like clawing talons through her chest? No. No, it was about Jake. Her intuition screamed it. “I’ll, um, be there in twenty minutes.”

  She tossed back the covers and scrambled out of bed. Where were her damn shoes?

  The kitchen. She’d left them in the kitchen, under the bar. She always left them in the kitchen under the bar.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Logan.”

  Heading down the hallway, the thick carpet cushioning her rushing feet, she sensed he was about to hang up and quickly stalled him. “General, is Jake all right?” Why had she asked? Connor couldn’t tell her. Not on an unsecured phone line.

  “Of course,” he said smoothly. “Just get here as soon as you can, Mrs. Logan.”

  Mrs. Logan. He’d lied. Oh, yes. This was about Jake. Her heart shattering, she tossed down the phone, finished jerking on her jeans, grabbed her shoes and purse, then headed out the door.

  Halfway to the Mustang, she remembered it had broken down.

  From the kitchen, she called a cab, impatiently explained to the dispatcher she couldn’t wait fifteen minutes for a ride, and then hung up. Mrs. Miller had her car. The only choice left was to take Jake’s Jag. It was his pride and joy, and he’d be mad as hell at her or anyone else for driving it—even he rarely drove it—but this was an emergency. She snagged the keys off the peg by the back door, then ran out to the garage.

  The engine purred as soft as a kitten. Laura forced herself not to speed, not to stomp the gas pedal and fly to the base. Her thoughts ran wild. Fear caught her in a death grip. And beneath it all, the truth pounded through her as forcefully as a heart beats during an adrenaline rush. Her feelings for Jake had changed. They’d grown far deeper than friendship.